The Healing of Smeagol
by White89
Summary: After the hobbits were released from Osgiliath, Gollum decided to lead them to their doom. But what if he were injured, and they had no choice but to rely on one another?
1. Chapter 1

Three hobbits walked steadily through a rather dry and thick forest. If one had looked upon them, though, they would have sworn it was only two, with some strange, wily wretch of a creature. But it didn't matter what others thought, only those three. For they controlled the fate of the world.

Gollum walked ahead, his body crawling low to the ground. Sam, then Frodo followed closely behind. The forest was that of Ithilien, and each step brought them closer and closer to Mordor. The climate was warm, and the occasional chirps of birds were heard, but were still rare. No doubt that was due to the proximity of the dark land, with the lidless eye ever watching.

Trees were packed closely together, vegetation thick and lush. It was a relief to Sam and Frodo, who felt it was the most favorable land they had traveled through since they left the fellowship. Their worlds were slightly brighter, despite the ever-encroaching dread they all felt. The experience with Faramir was one they would not want to relive, despite the fact that it

seemed to drive them all the more forward.

The atmosphere was packed with emotion. Tension bred in the thick, humid air. Gollum's pace was even more hurried than usual, causing the other hobbits to scramble after him at a fast walk. Still, the path was hard, tiring, and was almost deliberately chosen as such.

Frodo tried his best to keep pace with the former Ring-bearer and, as he nearly tripped over a log, realized they had to slow down. "Sméagol!" he called up ahead. "Please, slow down!"

Gollum stopped and looked over his shoulder. "Make haste! Make haste! Wraiths close, they see master, we must go!"

But this did not sway Frodo. "Yes, they saw master. And yes, they are near. But I cannot keep up, Sméagol. And if I fall and become injured..." But he never finished the sentence; Sam broke in.

"And if you're the cause of 'im gettin' hurt..." Sam began in a deep and threatening tone. Sméagol's eyes grew, and he began to shrink backwards. This immediately prompted Frodo to react.

"Sam, it's all right," he said as he grabbed his companion's shoulder. "He didn't mean anything by it. I'm sure he's just frightened." Samwise eased off, but his gaze was strangely not as harsh as it would have usually been. Something about him was different, changed, unusual. His gaze turned back to Gollum, whose focus was switching between the two.

The older hobbit turned back and started off again. He was careful to go more slowly this time, but he continued to mutter to himself under his breath, none of it decipherable by the two other hobbits. They did notice that Gollum seemed ever odder than usual, and Frodo couldn't help but feel that Sam looked upon him with a new curiosity, like he suddenly understood what

the creature was going through.

In reality Sam simply didn't know how to feel. After Frodo nearly killed him, he knew the Ring was having its effect on his best friend, knew it was changing him. And now that he saw its effect on his master in the form of attempted murder, he began to see the effect in full in Sméagol.

But his pity had not taken full in Gollum yet. He watched him with eagle eyes... and strangely enough, he found himself looking at Frodo in almost the same manner.

Up the line, Gollum stopped. He sniffed the humid air, turning his head on his spindly neck. With a sigh, he sat down and began to paw at the dirt, muttering again. Ahead was a tower like a rock formation, shafts of light illuminating it through the dark and dreary forest. There appeared to be no real way around it; rocks and boulders were everywhere.

Panting heavily, the other hobbits finally caught up. Apparently, Sméagol had never meant to slow down at all. He didn't remember this formation; in fact, he didn't think he had come across this turn before, either. He hated to admit it, but he was lost.

"We is lossst, lossst, precious," his Gollum side admitted. A slight wind came along and sent the last remnants of his hair waving in the wind, sweeping over his pale face. "Don't tell the nasty hobbitses. They hates us! Hates us both!"

Frodo stopped and watched the crouched figure. Gollum turned to look at them both. "Up there, up there! Good Sméagol will go first!" he cried out in his most innocent tone as his slinker side won out for a few choice minutes.

And with that, he began his ascent up the small tower of rock, hands expertly clutching the crags of stone, crawling up the face with speed and vigor unlike any before. He was halfway up before the other two said anything.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" Sam yelled from below. Sméagol stopped for a moment on a ledge and looked down to his confused companions.

"Sam hobbit must follow, hurry hobbitses, hurry!"

"No I will not! There is no..." But he stopped as he noticed Frodo was beginning to climb up after Gollum. "Frodo! It's too dangerous!" He ran over to him.

"Sam, I'm tired of arguing. He hasn't gotten us hurt yet." And with a rather tired and irritated look, he turned and gained a foothold. Gollum's expression was that of relief; he sat and waited for his kind master to make his way up. Sam let out an angry and irritated breath, then gruffly followed suit.

Sam was terrible at rock climbing, Frodo noticed. But then, he was not much better himself. They made their way up several feet, and it wasn't until then that their guide started his way up again. Frodo slipped a bit and bruised his hand a little. He cried out, then put the victimized finger in his mouth to temporarily relieve the pain.

Gollum, however, despite his wonderful hearing, was too far up to listen. Instead, he found his way to the very top. It was flat and only had enough room upon which to balance one lowly hobbit. He did so, perfectly resting on all fours, clinging on for dear life. He knew that one push or misstep would send him rolling down the rocks. The other side was craggy, with sharp rocks that reminded him faintly of the Emyn Muil. An even more distant memory filtered through from his youth. There was a small cliff, with big rocks near his home. Sometimes he would crawl on them, dig them up. He would have so much fun with something so simple...

"Fool," his Gollum side mused. "Doesn't matter now. Passst. Nasssty past. Forget it." And so he did, and with a heavy sigh, his gaze turned upward just as some heavy wind blew his few strands of hair before his face again. The dark brown of the hair whipped against his face, making him flinch. He tried toremember when he used to have curly long hair. Everyone had said that it was like his mother's. But the memory was lost to the wind, just as his life had been.

A caterpillar was crawling its way slowly up a rock below him; he bent forward a bit to watch as the green larva made its way steadily towards him. He had always had an interest in anything of the natural world, not tomention whatever appeared unusual or out of the ordinary. Ever since his youth, though it had dulled since then. With a heavy sigh, he looked up again.

"Hey!" Sam called from below, furious that he had ignored Frodo's small injury. "What's wrong with you!"

Sméagol spun around, careful to not slip, and almost did. Sam had helped Frodo to a smaller ledge right below the one where their guide sat. Of course, he wasn't hurt much. But the fatter companion didn't take chances.

"Sam, stop it, please!" Frodo pleaded. "I am growing sick of all this! He has done nothing!"

But something snapped within Gamgee's mind. Something deep, something primal. "You know what I'm sick of, Mr. Frodo? You always stickin' up for 'im!" And pointed a finger at the emaciated form above him.

The Ring-bearer's eyes widened, and his heart began to race. He'd never seen his gardener like this before. Had he gone mad?

"I just don't want any..." he began.

"Don't want any what! Look at 'im! He's disgusting! He's..." and as he spoke he walked higher and began to impose himself on the creature, "...sickening! He's crazy! Why can't you see that!"

"Sam, what is wrong with you!" Frodo screamed at his companion, standing up.

All the while, Sméagol's mind whirred. Hate and anger began to brew back up, but mostly, he was both sick and frightened. The scary Sam-hobbit was getting closer, with looks of incredible, horrible intent on his face.

Had to get away, had to.

Sam suddenly looked, and saw that Gollum was trying to escape. No, not this time. He reached out and grabbed one of Gollum's long, muscular yet lithe arms, attempting to pull him forward.

But the result was more of a push, and it came at exactly the wrong time.

Sméagol was trying to move downwards and catch a good grip with his foot, but never did.

Instead, the two other hobbits watched helplessly as their companion went wheeling over the edge. Sam's grip was loose, and Gollum's hand slipped easily through it. Looks of horror and surprise flashed across both their features as the frail form of Sméagol rolled down the side of the small tower. And it wasn't straight down, either. His body bounced from rock to rock as it fell, gravity claiming a new victim.

Frodo watched, his heart leaping to his throat, his mind fuzzy and sickened.

Gollum rolled along sharp stones and tore his thin skin. One on the head, torso, and all over the legs and arms. Then, he fell. Several feet, at least five, which seemed a lot more to a hobbit, and onto hard rock. One could distinctly hear the sound of flesh and bone hitting the slick surface of wet stone. Gollum disappeared from view.

And all was silent, save the ever-present sound of fell winds.

"Sam... what have you done?" Frodo asked his friend in a whisper. But he regretted saying the words the minute they left his mouth. Because he knew it was his own fault. He had watched, again, as another friend plummeted to his doom. And just as before, he had done nothing.

"I... I..." The hobbit next to him stammered, lips trembling, eyes wider then saucers. His hands shook as he attempted to steady himself on the rock, stomach turning, and nausea become to overcome his small body.

To Frodo, Sméagol was gone. He lay dead on the rocks below. Looking down, he watched as blood collected on the sharp ledges. There was a lot of it... too much, in fact. Too much for someone who could possibly be alive.

Bile began to rise in his throat, and did his best to keep it down. Putting his hand to his mouth, he made sure nothing would escape. Suddenly, a sound came on the wind. It was low and almost nonexistent, but it was there.

Gollum was alive, and crying softly at the bottom of the cliff.

"Sméagol!" Frodo cried as a wave of incredible relief washed over him. And before Sam could stop him, he began to climb swiftly down. "Sméagol are you all right, Sméagol?" He reached the cliff and peered down. Sam swiftly followed suit, falling to his hands and knees to look.

"By Eru... I..." he tried to say, but stuttered in amazement.

Gollum lay there on the stone, an even more broken hobbit then he had been before. Sprawled out completely on his back, his right hand rested on the hollow form of his chest. The left leg was bent at the knee. His loincloth had been torn from his body; it now lay on one of the pointed rocks above. Those striking blue eyes of his were closed.

The rest was horror. His right leg was a compound fracture, both the lower leg bones broken cleanly and poking through the skin. Muscle was visible around the white of the bone. Blood was smeared all around his calf, smudged by his own movements. The other leg remained badly bruised. His left arm was also clearly broken, though it remained under the skin. It was, however, bent at an incredibly odd angle. The wrist was sprained.

The other arm was gored and butchered by the rocks, dark wounds and bruises covering every inch. His skin no longer looked pale, but black with bruised skin and red with smeared blood. And his chest was severely scratched; no doubt his back was no better.

His head was, thankfully, not smashed. But it was torn up badly; blood oozed from the opening of a wound that had appeared above his right eye, flowing across his closed eyes. And if that wasn't enough, his genitals looked to be mangled as well, being lined with cuts and scratches.

Blood, blood was everywhere. He lay in a small puddle of it, and it was growing by the minute. It dripped steadily off the rock he was on, and formed small pools of their own.

But one thing spoke the most, and that was the steady and fast rhythm of his breathing. A small and short squeak would emit from him as a sign of his withheld pain. He was clearly unconscious.

Frodo breathed both in a sigh of relief and a cry of despair. He swallowed hard, then climbed down to join his injured friend. Approaching slowly, he tried his best not to fall to his knees in anguish at the awful scene before him. He bent down beside Gollum and gently grabbed his uninjured hand, but it was still covered with already-drying blood. Flies had started to gather as the sun made the whole scene reek.

"Sméagol? Sméagol, can you hear me?" he asked in his calmest voice. No answer came; Gollum's face was that of a complete blackout. Small streaks of blood were evident on his busted lip, his jaw lined with bruises. He had a black left eye. Just then, Sam made his way down to join them. And now as he looked upon the injured figure before him, all the hate that brewed within him seemed to disappear. He raised his hand to his mouth in horror.

"Mr. Frodo... I... I didn't mean to." Sam almost fell into sobs right there.

His mind swarmed with thoughts from the past. He had wanted to kill the wretch... wanted it more than anything at times. Why, then, when it actually happened, was he so stricken?

Frodo nodded to his friend, a look of bewilderment and sadness etched across his face. He then returned his gaze to their guide. "He's not dead, Sam. But he's hurt bad. He's lost a lot of blood." His vision trailed over the poor creature's body. He once again turned to his petrified companion.

"We must help him," Frodo said, and he slung off his backpack. Sam was about to criticize his decision. Then he realized he had no real right to; he had caused this, he was responsible for Gollum. Regardless of what Sam 'thought', Gollum had done nothing since that first night in the Emyn Muil.

In fact, he hadn't done anything but help. And now he needed theirs, but

Sam wasn't so sure he wanted to give it to him. To Frodo, however, there was no other option. In Lórien, he had received several new items that would help him in his quest, some of which were for healing. He pulled out several canvas-colored cloths that were made by elven hands. They felt silky to the touch, and smelled of crushed herbs.

The hobbits knew little about healing, but it was obvious what to do: stop the bleeding. Frodo took one of the cloths and tied it around Sméagol's forehead, covering the nasty gash, cinching it tight. Another cloth was stretched wide, then placed over his waist and chest. The open wounds on the arms and legs received similar treatment.

Sam assisted in the process, all the while his mind turning over and over. What seemed so striking to him was the blood. It was red, quickly turning brown as it dried. He, oddly, hadn't been expecting that. Samwise thought only black, choking blood pumped through those horrid veins, or maybe none at all. But no, it was red. Like a man, elf, dwarf.

Or a hobbit, just like him.


	2. Chapter 2

Sméagol's injuries were still obvious; the fractured bones of his legs and arms needed fixing, but not here, not now. No doubt more injuries lay below the surface of his pale skin. Frodo tied on another piece of cloth to hide his nudity, as well as prevent it from any more injury.

"Sam," he said softly. "We need to get him out of here."

"But where?" Sam answered, panting.

Frodo stood up, his heart thumping nervously in his chest. And then he saw it, across a small field of rocks. It was a cave in a cliffside. Frodo pointed to it.

"There," he answered.

Sam followed his gaze and sighed at the thought, but turned back to his two companions with doubt in his mind. "Why can't we just... leave him here?" He forced out the words. Frodo snapped up and looked at him with a combination of shock and sadness.

"Sam," he said sadly, "no. We will not. We cannot." Then he stood for a moment, and looked over the landscape. "I won't have it. I told you before, Sam, I want to help him. And he needs it now more then ever." Sam nodded, reluctantly.

"Then let's go." Frodo turned to his injured companion, his breath shallow.

He then carefully and slowly wrapped his hands around their guide's chest, wincing at the feel of the wet and slimy blood on his hands. He lifted him up slightly, in constant fear that Gollum would wake suddenly from the pain and cause even more damage to himself. Sam gathered up his strength and courage, took a deep breath, and grabbed the legs.

The sight of the broken leg turned his stomach; luckily, the bleeding had stopped. Gollum's arms dangled and dragged slightly on the ground. He would whimper occasionally, but still was obviously out cold. The blood from his head caused the brown hair of his scalp to mat. He was filthy with his own life fluids up and down, and the flies continued to pursue them in the midday heat.

He was a light load, too light. His skinny frame was transported easily across the terrain, but not swiftly. They were both careful to not cause any pain, and worried each time he whined in his comatose state.

They reached the cave, and it was a surprisingly welcome sight. It had a wide but low entrance, but opened up more within. The two hobbits maneuvered his lithe body into the crevice, and were surprised by the roomy interior. A large and expansive chamber lay inside. To the left, there was a flat slab engraved into the wall. And the center there was a fire ring. It was obvious that this had been used before, but its occupants were nowhere to be seen.

"This will do nicely," Frodo remarked gruffly, and with the last of his failing strength, he led Sam over to the stone bed. They set Sméagol upon it, his head facing the cave entrance, using all the dexterity they could muster to insure he wasn't suffering any pain from the position.

With a huff of exhaustion, both sat down near the bottom of the 'bed', heads against the stone, breathing, thinking. They stared ahead, towards what was to be their new 'home' for no doubt several days. Sam looked down at his hands; Sméagol's blood was smeared all over his calloused palms, arms, and soaking into his shirt and elven cloak.

Now it was getting sticky, and flies were beginning to gather. Frodo sighed and wiped the sweat from his brow with a clean sleeve. He looked about the room, and to the back of the chamber; something caught his eye.

"There's some water in here," he remarked, pointing to the back. And there was — Sam got up to look — there was a small pool of cold mountain water. A river trickled silently from the hills above and entered a small tunnel. And in the water, to both hobbit's surprise, were fish. They were brown trout, and would suffice nicely as a meal.

Frodo and Sam wasted no time washing their hands and arms off, then splashing some water on their clothes to mask the horrid scent. Then they again sat in silence.

"What are we going to do, Sam?" Frodo asked, tired, broken. Sam sighed, and put his head in his hands.

"I don't know, Mr. Frodo. We can't go 'on without 'im. And like you said, we can't leave 'im behind, even if we didn't need 'im. We should probably get to setting his bones."

Frodo stared across the cave to his hurt companion, a sudden sadness welling up within. Tears began to surface, but he wiped them away quickly.

"Not now," Frodo responded. "Let's just rest, please. I'm about ready to collapse." And with that, he laid against the stone and fell into a small trance. Sam nodded off himself, his dreams full of unknown horrors.


	3. Chapter 3

Frodo was entranced in his scent. It was like a hobbit whom had just come back from some hard labor. He didn't know why, but it drove him mad. Never was he so attracted to another being like he was now. Likening it to the feeling he had for the females back at the Shire. But he had never managed to get close to them; him, however, he was already inside.

He looked down at the person below him, and was overjoyed at the happiness he had brought the poor being. Cooing like a playful cat, the thin body began to snuggle even closer, running those flattened hands of his through the curly hair that adorned his head.

Crying. He heard crying. Frodo awoke. The short term memory of his brain found it no longer needed his dream. And so it was dumped, disposed of, and was forgotten. That, and the present situation was arguably even more urgent. Gollum had awoken.

He still lay in his makeshift bed. His entire body trembled violently, and he was crying intensely, not so much a scream as it was a low whine. Frodo leaped up to his feet, and gently shook Sam awake.

Sméagol continued to cry out, his voice rising then lowering. His eyes were filled to the brim with tears, and his arms were raised partially in the air as they twitched. To Gollum, it felt just like Mordor, the second most horrible experience in his long life. That machine that stretched him, those whips, cruel utensils that cut and scarred him. Sometimes when he fell into a trance, which replaced 'sleep' ever since he got the 'precious', he would have nightmares about it. It broke his spirit even more so, and wreaked havoc on his already-troubled mind.

Now he felt riddled with pain once more, jolts of it shooting throughout every nerve of his thin frame. Mostly from the compound fracture, not to mention the broken bones in his arm, and a few smashed ribs. Confusion ran rampant in his mind, desperately trying to remember what had happened before he blacked out. All he could remember was that Sam hobbit... he did this! Nasty hobbit hates us! We knew it!

He didn't know the full extent of his injuries, but he felt the pain. It was making him sick, his vision blurry and stomach turning. Feeling as though he was about to throw up that bit of fish he had at the Forbidden Pool, he lurched, but was lucky enough to keep it down.

"Make it stop, precious," he thought. "Just please... we'll do anything..."

It was then that his master showed up beside him. And almost like magic, his mind was eased and the pain didn't seem as bad as before. He lolled his head over to see him, to gaze into those caring eyes.

"Mas... master-rr?" He tried to form words through his sobs and blood filled mouth.

"Sméagol...?" Frodo asked back, and gently reached for the uninjured hand of his friend. "How... how do you feel?" And then gently he stroked his companion's hand in sympathy and pity.

Frodo regretted saying something so obvious, but he had no real idea how to greet Sméagol as he came out of his comatose state. Gollum blinked and took a moment to register. "It hurtssss... it hurtsss us." And in the process, he spat out blood and a newly destroyed tooth. The cry ended in a sob, and he turned his head away, body shaking and perspiration clinging to his features, chest heaving with torment.

Sam had been watching from afar; he sat and tried desperately not to pull

Frodo from the mess, and yet he could by no means turn away. The pitiful being lay on that rock bed, and cried and wailed so sadly, and not a trace of anger remained. He walked up to Gollum and joined his master's side.

Frodo swallowed uneasily, and assessed the state of his fallen companion. He lay with his head turned to the right, eyes closed, crying loudly. His left arm wrapped around his head, face burrowed in the inside of his elbow.

"Make it stop master... please! Fix it." And he fell into sobs again. Sméagol desperately hoped master would make it all better... he had to, just had to... he was beginning to see black spots flashing before his eyes. Despite the pain, he didn't want to drift back out into unconsciousness again. It was like a fuzzy void that hovered over his mind.

"Everything is going to be okay, Sméagol," Frodo began, a lump in his throat.

"You fell off that tower of rocks. But we picked you back up. We carried you here, and we are going to help you, all right then?" he asked as calmly and soothingly as he could muster.

Sméagol gently whined and nodded in response, then turned his head. His eyes widened at the sight of Sam, however, and a look of fear flashed across his face.

"Nasty hobbit! Nassssty Sam!" He cried out, using his name for the first time. "He pushed us! Tried to kill us!" And then he tried to back up, but winced and cried as he nudged his many injuries, and slumped back down. Shivering massively once more, his heartbeat increased tenfold.

Sam backed up, astonished at Gollum's sudden reaction. He now watched from afar again as Frodo tried to calm him down. Taking his hand again, he began again in a soothing voice. "Sam didn't mean to! I was there, I saw it!

He... tried to help you, to pull you in, now that I think of it." He glanced back to his companion. Surprise registered on Sam's face, and so he turned back.

"I know it hurts, Sméagol, and Sam is sorry... we are sorry. But we are going to help you get better, all right? But you have to help us. Can you help us, Sméagol?" Frodo was always sure to repeat his real name. It made him pay attention, understand, and trust. A look of desperation and pleading came into his eyes as he looked at his master. He sniffled, and the shaking began to die down.

"We can help, master. But you must help poor Sméagol, we is very sick." He said the last part in a failing, high pitched squeak. And began to cry again, falling into a series of dry coughs. His breathing increased and he began to hyperventilate, finding difficulty keeping up with his own diseased lungs.

It was clear to them both that Sméagol's health was beginning to fade, they had to act fast. Frodo placed his hand on his injured friend's forehead, he was feverishly hot. And now he was sweating. Breathing raspy and quick, he looked at his master with urgency.

"What should we do, Sam?" He asked his companion with indecisiveness. Sam gave him a look of confusion, sighed, then shrugged his shoulders. "Set those bones, I suppose. That's what's causing all that pain, I bet. A cold rag on his head might help that fever, too."

Frodo knew enough to estimate that fixing those bones would cause even more agony, but it had to be done. It didn't take a genius, only common sense, to figure that he would need several splints. "Could you get some word, for splints? But before that, can you wet a rag?" He asked his gardener.

Sam looked back up, and nodded. With some hesitation, he tore a piece of cloth from his sleeve, not wanting to use his bathing materials. Wetting it in the water, he carried it back over to his master.

"Thank you, Sam. Now how about that wood?" He asked again, eager for some odd reason.

"You'll be all right here, by yourself?" he asked, and there was no question of the level of concern he had. Here, alone, with Gollum. Not to mention that whatever had created this little outpost might come back. He watched as Frodo nodded and made a faint smile. "I'll be fine." Then proceeded to take Gollum's hand again, concern in his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

As his friend left, he made sure he was gone, gently calling out his name.

There was no answer. And gently then began to stoke Sméagol's pale and bruised hand with more then just comfort. Lightly, he kissed his hand, and leaned over.

"You do know I care about you, Sméagol?" He told him, slowly and full of kindness. "I want to help you. I want to bring you back." Gollum stopped sobbing for a moment, and sniffled. Eyes brimming with tears, he looked into the eyes of the Ring-bearer above him.

A moment of stillness spread over both of them, Gollum's gaze fierce and almost unblinking as he looked at Frodo. As he started, the rag was lovingly wiping away the sweat and some of the blood that covered his forehead.

"Then why did master betray us." And he said it with such venom and hate, that Frodo's face contorted into worry and fear. He sat the rag on his forehead, hoping it would relieve the heat further. Then with sadness close to tears, he leaned back.

"I did no such thing," he stated plainly. "They held you in their sights. While you were fishing, they were ready to shoot. If I didn't come down... Sméagol, they would have killed you."

With that, he leaned in even closer. "If I wanted you dead, you would be.

But I care... oh yes, I do care. And I'm not sure I know why, but the important thing is that... that I'm here to help you."

And then he took both hands, careful of the pain Gollum might feel, clasping them together and holding them tight. "Please, Sméagol," and he began to cry again, "don't die. Please don't die."

Sméagol looked completely awestruck. "Master... cries for us? Doesn't want us to die...?" This took him by complete surprise, and a feeling of cold racked his sweaty body. "But... why?"

Frodo sobbed again, unable to control himself. "Because I think you deserve saving, Sméagol. Just as much as me, or Bilbo."

He then used one hand to reach under his clothing and pull out the One

Ring. Gollum tensed at its sight. "Don't let this rule you anymore... just as it's doing to me."

Frodo leaned as close as possible, and let the Ring dangle onto the creature's chest as he spoke. "For me... please." He whispered into his right ear. And then kissed him gently on the forehead, below the sweat soaked rag.

Sméagol's mind warped, and he resumed his sobbing. Not in pain, but in sudden understanding. 'Nasssty Hobbit.' Cried Gollum to Sméagol. 'Lies, rotten lies! What does he know of pain! He knows nothing! Kill him! Kill him and take the precioussss. It will make us better! It has before, stopped the pain, numbed it, and make us better! Allll better, Smeaaaagol. No more crying, no more fat hobbit to hurts us.'

But Sméagol said nothing, did nothing.

'Why don't you killlll him! Hissss! Fool of a hobbit, just like the others!

Can't even kill right anymore!'

'Go away.'

Gollum laughed high and wickedly. 'Remember last time we leave? Master betray us! Little Stoor hobbit should be glad I stayed around.'

'You don't care about me. He does. That's all the evidence I need! Leave me!'

Gollum paused. That was the first time he said 'I or me' to him in ages.

'I...' he began again.

'LEAVE ME! Déagol is dead! Déagol is dead, and it's all your fault!

Everything is your fault! I hate you! I HATE you! I HATE YOU!'

'Shut up! Filthy hobbit!'

And then Sméagol looked to his 'precious' on his chest for some comfort. It always gave him reassurance, a figurative hand on his shoulder. But with a look of absolute horror, he hada startling revelation. The voice of Gollum was the Ring. It was emanating, speaking from it as well. Frodo heard nothing.

And suddenly, centuries of torment had a form that wasn't his own. Every ounce of pain, hate, and blinding rage hidden under his thin frame bubbled to its surface as he snapped back to a horrid and fuzzy reality. He snapped, but this time, for the better.

'I am proud to be a hobbit. Rotten shadow. LEAVE NOW, never, EVER, come back!"

The last part was first hissed, then screamed aloud, and it took every ounce of his frail mental and physical strength as he grabbed the Ring from Frodo's chain and threw it across the room. It clattered to the floor, and the black speech of Mordor could be heard calling from its small form.

Gollum was defeated.

Frodo was the embodiment of surprise, and looked at Sméagol with an unimaginable level of horror and amazement. He rushed across the room and grabbed it, stroked it gently, whispered to it, and fastened it onto the chain again.

"Sorry, Master..." Sméagol trailed off. "But... you can help us... me... now," he said with a very, very slight smile, and he began to cry, his body shaking and writhing from the expulsion of the possessive will of the One Ring.

Frodo rushed over and knelt again beside him. He didn't know what had just happened, but he knew it was progress. Knew... knew that for once, Sméagol had the chance, and didn't take it. In fact, he had rejected it.

But in Sméagol's mind there still loomed a shadow. The Ring still existed, and until it was destroyed, just like Sauron, Gollum would never fully disappear. He pushed down the memories that came flooding back into his ravaged brain. He wasn't sure he wanted to remember... yet, anyway. Perhaps if he were able, he would have danced. But instead, he reached out, and Frodo once again took his hand.


	5. Chapter 5

At that moment, Sam returned. In his arms he carried a whole pile of dead wood. Frodo looked in his direction, and watched as he dumped the wood in the fire Ring.

"Thought we could make a fire, too," Sam added, and wiped the sweat from his brow. Frodo nodded and turned back to him. "Grab the flattest, sturdiest pieces, about two." And as he said that, he stood and began to slowly rouse Sméagol.

Frodo knew little about healing, but he did know that you should always wash wounds out with soap and water; wounds always healed faster and healthier that way. He bit his lip in thought. He had water, and he kept a bar of soap in his pack, though he'd never had the opportunity to use it yet.

And yet he felt that Sméagol could wait no longer; the pain appeared to be excruciating. The sooner the bone was set to heal, the sooner the worst part would be over, and they could be on the road to recovery. Frodo made his decision and waved Sam over.

"Let's move him over to the pool. We need to wash his leg and arm." Sam walked over and looked upon the sad state of the creature. He lay stretched out, on his back, and panted heavily. Looking up, Sméagol trembled at sight of the fatter hobbit. He lay his uninjured right arm in front of his eyes in fear.

"Sam mustn't hurt us... me...!" he corrected quickly. Sam stopped for a moment, and looked at Frodo in shock. "Did you hear what he just said?" he asked him. And then he looked down at Sméagol once more. "He said 'me'," he said drifted off. Inside his mind dwelled new questions; this was the first time he had ever actually referred to himself, and not 'we'. It confused and bewildered Sam. Was he growing even more delirious, or even more sane?

"I did, Sam." Frodo responded, and then silently mouthed, "not now." And Samwise remained silent, now unsure of what to make of their guide. Frodo leaned over and wrapped his arms around Sméagol's chest. He stiffened in response, and at first wiggled a little in fear. "Gollum, stop it," Sam began as he realized what was about to happen if he did wiggle loose.

Sméagol complied immediately, looking at the person that now grabbed hold of his legs, shaking at the feel of his dry, calloused palms. Sméagol then cried out when he was touched in the wrong way, his voice sad and haunting. Sam swiftly corrected himself, a look of irritation on his face. He moved his hands upward and took him from around the waist.

He could feel the touch of the hobbits, and became rather shy of both of them. So much fuss over his poor little self? And now that Gollum was gone, he truly had to rely on the two strangers to care for him. The soft cloth of their cloaks rubbing against his skin felt good. He twisted

slightly in their grasp to feel the texture of the elven workmanship. All the while, his was mind fuzzy and loose from the sudden departure of his alter ego.

The idea that the Sam-hobbit was touching him... it made his skin twitch. It was from a mixture of disgust and fear. He had been so hated by the fatter one, why would he touch poor little Sméagol? Did he want to hurt him? Why did he suddenly care?

'Maybe he's starting to care,' he thought to himself. 'He is too rough... his hands are hard on my skin.'

He was laid over by the pool, on his back. Sméagol winced at the feel of cool, hard rock poking into his hide. Closing his eyes again, he tried not to think. He didn't know what was going to happen next. He drifted slowly in and out of delirium, his newly acquired fever not helping things. The body of the slave to the Ring was weak from starvation and malnutrition. It used to be that the Ring would cure these, but also cause them. Antibodies worked hard to fight infection, the dead bacteria forming pus that was beginning to make its way to the outside of his wounds.

Sméagol's body was fighting, heart hammering as it pumped blood around the weakened being's form. His temperature was rising, but still under a safe level. His brain was a literal battlefield of repairing neurons. Gollum's presence was like a plague on his mind, slowly destroying it. Now that he had left, it was beginning to repair. Not to mention the gash given to him by a particularly nasty rock that scraped his forehead on the fall down.

And the worst pain, perhaps, came from his groin. He wasn't sure what was wrong with it, only that it hurt the most as he moved his legs in any way.

It was like someone had kicked him with a boot lined with spikes... several times. Another memory from Mordor flooded back, but he repressed it.

Frodo looked upon him, and tried to look for any lack of comfort. But all he could detect was the average look of withheld agony in Sméagol features. He began to make small 'ur' noises, but Frodo sat down beside his head, and, heedless of Sam's presence, moved Sméagol's head onto his lap. "Shhhhh..." He gently began to stroke Sméagol's pointy hobbit ears. "It's all right... it's going to be all right."

Sméagol blinked slowly, and then sighed deeply. Closing his eyes, he fell into the comfort of the younger hobbit. The feel of his hands were gentler then that of his gardener friend. A tingle traveled through his body, and a warmth filled him that had nothing to do with fever.

All the while, Sam watched... what was he doing? Touching him like that? "Mr.

Frodo," he whispered as low as possible. "What are you doing...?"

Frodo looked up like he had been snapped from a trance. He hadn't even realized he was doing it. "C... comforting him," he squeaked out. But he didn't stop; he just went slower, and less inconspicuously. Had there been no injuries,

Sméagol might have fallen asleep right there in his master's lap.

But the evening would not be so peaceful. "There's some soap in my pack,

Sam, and a washcloth," he informed his friend. Sam sighed and gave him a disturbed look. He got up and collected the items as he rummaged through the worn backpack.

He carried over to Frodo a transparent piece of soap, and a blue rag. Sam was rather disgusted that he was about to use his own bathing materials for... him. It made his mind twitch.


	6. Chapter 6

"Gather up the rag a bit and start cleaning the area we're going to splint." And all the while, he looked down into the face of the now content Sméagol, who shifted a little in his small trance, unaware and uncaring as long as he remained in Frodo's warm lap.

Sam bit his lip, feeling the need to express his displeasure to his master.

But he held it back; he remembered what had happened the last time he exploded, and the result was what would dominate his life for the future weeks... at best.

Sméagol lay comfortable, despite the pain that caused his legs to shake and his body to writhe. Suddenly, he felt the touch of something cold on his broken leg. He jolted, leg twitching in response to the stimulation. Then he felt Sam's hands hold his leg in place, and felt pressure being applied to the open wound of his compound fracture.

His eyes opened, and he watched as Sam gently, though unwillingly, began to scrub the area. He couldn't help but sit up a bit in alarm. Frodo held on to Sméagol with his free hand, while the other continued to comfort. "It's going to hurt a bit... but it will help it heal, Sméagol, lie down," Frodo reassured, and gently placed him upon his lap again.

With a hearty swallow of worry and sickness, Sméagol closed his eyes again. His hands gently moved up and grabbed at Frodo, and found his cloak. He breathed into it, and inhaled, smelling his master's unique and once-familiar aroma. It calmed him, the pheromones heavy in the air.

Sam watched as Sméagol contained himself, snuggling even closer to the master he held so dear, and began to feel a touch of jealousy. He turned his gaze down and wet the rag some more. He began by washing around the wound, and was stunned at the amount of dirt that came off. He had to dip the washcloth again to remove it.

He applied more soap and gently rubbed the wound. Sméagol's leg began to twitch in stinging pain. He then shook, and snuggled even closer to Frodo. Sam could hear a small whine, and then it would dissipate into more spasms. He had difficulty holding on to the leg, but in the end, Sméagol surrendered and let his leg be cleaned by his rival. Sam moved the rag over the bone and knew it must have been horrible. He felt a pang of sympathy, and it lasted the rest of the night.

Relieved, Frodo watched as Sam finished with the leg injury. He then proceeded to wash out the cloth, turning the water a temporary red. Not having a towel, and not wanting to walk over and grab one, Sam grudgingly used his cloak to dry the wound, but was sure to be careful not to cause more harm than good, dabbing it gently.

Sméagol let out a heavy sigh, then turned his head to see what Sam was going to do next. "Frodo," Sam began, "I'm going to set it now."

Frodo nodded, a lump in his throat. They had both been gentle up to now. He feared the sudden onslaught of pain that they would cause would result in Sméagol reverting back to who he had been... before. Frodo couldn't explain it, but he knew he was different now. He wanted him to stay like this.

"Sméagol?" He asked quietly. His sparsely lined head turned upwards to stare, lined with sweat from the uneasy stress. "Sam is going to fix your leg, now, it's going to hurt, but it's the only way for it to get better, all right?" he explained as best he could. With a shaky nod and a swallow, Sméagol agreed.

Nodding to Sam, Frodo took full hold, and placed his arms around Sméagol's chest like a ring. With a slight hesitation, he pulled his leg so that the bone could slide down into the skin. Immediately, Sméagol squeaked in a high pitch and began to backpedal in his master's arms. Frodo now held him closer, his back now to his chest. "Let it all out, let it all out," he whispered into his companion's ear.

"It hurts so much," Sméagol said in a pain-stricken and defeated voice, and then proceeded to sob.

"I'm here, I'm here." Frodo repeated in his ear, and hugged him close. Sam then pushed the bone down and through the skin, using all the strength he could muster. All the while the leg would thrash about, then stop and occasionally allow him to work. While it irritated him, he couldn't help but admit he might have done the same.

Finally, it was aligned with the bone, using his hands along the leg and feeling under his skin. He grabbed the ready piece of wood and placed it along Sméagol's shattered calf, then swiftly wrapped then tied the cloth around it. He stretched it to go between Sméagol's large first and second toes.

But it wasn't over yet. Sméagol's arm was still untended to, and so moved in the said direction. Sméagol was breathing loud and hard, doing all he could not to pass out. He had grown even paler, sweat pouring from every conceivable pore. He knew what was coming next, as the same pain radiated from his arm as did his leg, and held it out and looked in the other direction. Frodo shot Sam a concerned look, and nodded as he then proceeded.

Sméagol yipped, then inhaled and exhaled loudly through clenched teeth. And after nearly an hour of tedious anguish and repositioning, his arm was set, splinted, and wrapped in the same fashion, the cloth stretched between his thumb and index finger.

Sam sat back, exhausted from the constant wrestling with their patient. His hands were covered in both sweat and blood. He swiftly washed them off in the small fish pool next to him, and watched as the fish surfaced to investigate the taste of the red life fluids. With a sigh, he looked to Frodo, who gave him a smile.

"Thank you, Sam," Frodo said. And Sam felt better about the whole ordeal, not feeling near as guilty about Sméagol's accident now that he had done something to help. And Frodo was happy, and that made it all worth it. Then he looked down at the gasping, yet relieved hobbit that he had just helped. And he looked back.

In those eyes were a different light. One that beamed with a new gleam, but also managed to be tired and unclear. "Thank you," Sméagol managed to say, with a tired and cracked voice. Then he coughed, but it wasn't his usual "gollum", but a dry hack combined with a heave. Tears rolled down from his eyes from the pain.

Even Sam was surprised by the gratitude shown to him, but he had little time to dwell on it, because Sméagol was beginning to suffer from something else already. He lurched again, and it was clear what was going to happen.

"Sick," Sméagol somehow got out between gasps for air. "I'm going to be sick." And he started to turn over, mindless of his injuries. "Quick, get him out!" Frodo cried as he grabbed Sméagol by the shoulders and hoisted him up. Sam followed suit. They carried him as fast as possible out the cave entrance; it was now dusk. They laid him down on his stomach.

Sméagol took the opportunity, and crawled over to two rocks that protruded from the ground. A spasm ripped through his stomach muscles, and up came the trout from Henneth Anun. Coughing and sputtering could be heard as he spit the rotten, decayed remnants of fish and digestive enzymes. It made him even more disgusted as he tasted his own stomach acid, but nothing was left for him to bring up. After a minute of heavy breathing, and making sure it was clear from his mouth, he sat up.

Frodo came over. "How are you?" he asked, noticing that Sméagol was visibly shaken. Sméagol nodded. "No more... all gone... all gone." And he fell back into his master's arms. Sam automatically went to fetch some water from his skin, confident he would find more later.

Sam remembered when he had a stomach flu once; it was not pleasant. He had thrown up all he tried to eat and gone a whole day without food, hell for a hobbit. Remembering the horrid taste left over from it, he sympathized with Sméagol and knew what he had to do.

"Here," he offered, admittedly a little frightened of his reaction. But Sméagol took it without further recourse, and took a small amount of the water into his mouth, rinsed, then spit it out. He repeated the process.

"Don't drink," Sam offered as advice. "You just might throw that back up, too." Sméagol nodded, understanding the fat hobbit. He handed back the skin; despite the fact that he was thirsty, intensely so, he listened. But the horrid taste in his mouth was thankfully gone.

With right leg and left arm stiffened, he lay back against the stone. The sun was setting, and it was a surprisingly beautiful sight. Purple filled the sky and stretched its light throughout the land. They lay there for a bit, the only sound the breathing of tired souls. No one said anything.

Sméagol stared at the sky, mind dizzy. But Frodo was still next to him, and gently laid a hand on his thinning scalp. He began to trace around his pointy ears again, and slowly made it to his shoulder.

"Do you feel any better...?" he asked in a low voice. And Sméagol looked at Frodo with wide blue eyes.

"I will never be better, master." He then closed his eyes and looked away. Frodo grew silent as his mouth closed and body chilled.

Sam watched, his mind numb and emotions twisted, and the sun disappeared beneath the horizon. The world fell into darkness as the Ring-bearers both shed a tear for one another.

A cocoon had formed on a nearby rock; it was the same caterpillar from before.

The green exterior was just translucent enough to see a sinuous body begin to change.

All the while, only one thing echoed in Sméagol's mind. One for centuries, alone, in the darkness, was always there, both mentally, and physically.

Hurt.


	7. Chapter 7

When it grew slightly chilly, Frodo and Sam carried the lethargic and sickly Sméagol back into the cave. He was laid down several feet from the fire ring. Both hobbits began to prepare a fire; they spoke quietly as to not rouse their patient. But their attempts were in vain; he was awake, just tired. Eyelids heavy and body limp, he gently rolled over onto his back. This interrupted the two's discussion, which involved different methods of starting fires. Sam paused in mid-sentence, and looked over to Sméagol as he groaned slightly.

Sméagol remembered making fires… long, long ago. Since Gollum had left permanently, memories had slowly begun to find their way back. One of his fondest was the camping trips he would take when he was around twenty years old. A young teen to hobbit standards. Only Déagol would go with him, and even then that was only a few of the times.

Usually, it was just him out there in the wilderness. The first hobbit, before Bilbo or any of his relatives, to travel outside the borders of town for recreation. Sure, it was only camping, but it was looked on as a death-wish by others of his kind. Stoors would travel, and enjoyed it. A sense of natural curiosity and mischief, along with the sturdy resilience and ability to survive, thrived in their blood.

They prided themselves on being able to withstand the dangers of nearby Mirkwood, along with the general disturbances involved with the outside world. Still, they only did it when necessary. No normal hobbit was said to do it "just 'cause". Sméagol did, and they hated him for it.

But no ill ever became of him. He would lie down beside the fire and listen to the crickets in the night. Occasionally he would hear a wolf. These were not the horrible mutated and unnatural wolves of the goblins, but wise and fair dogs of the wilderness. He often even saw a few, and was not afraid of the glorious light they gave off.

Sméagol smiled openly at the memory, and then frowned when he remembered when he would come home. It was a bittersweet affair. He would be glad to be back where he could live in his rich, if crowded, hobbit-hole. His grandma would welcome him back, but then give him a list of chores to do. And like always, wouldn't feed him until he did. Then his family and the general public would give him the nastiest looks.

He looked at the fire; it was beginning to grow on the small amount of wood that they had started it. The image of flickering flame brought back more recent memories, those of Mordor. He hated it. It was so barren and choking, despite the large amounts of rocks to climb, they were black with ash and soot. They were too pointy… too dank. He had lived in the Misty Mountain caverns for centuries, but only out of fear and familiarity. Being in the sun reminded him of before…before his thirty-third birthday, when hobbits come of age.

It hurt his mind, the sun. And the precious hated it, and so Gollum did as well. And the caves were perfect. There was water there, too. He loved to swim and fish, so he never left. He got used to hiding and whispering away in dark corners. His memory began to fade. Sméagol began to forget how he got there in the first place. He came there sniveling and crying, not thinking of salvation, but of hopelessness, never intending to stay there. He just wanted to be away… away, alone. And so he turned to his precious; it was all he had left.

When he left to search for the One Ring, something drew him towards Mordor. Gollum made him go there, and never told him why. But as he approached, he was captured and tortured. A shiver riveted his body from the memory; the scars of the ordeal were permanent, his back lined with whip marks and deep gouges. They also tried to geld him, by taking a large and serrated knife and beginning to saw away at the connecting flesh.

Luckily, they decided about halfway through that it was not working, and that the stretcher might work better. Sméagol swore he had never screamed so loudly.

When finished, they threw him, literally, out the gates. And before he could escape, he was kicked in the stomach several times by a large orc. Then in the face, where he managed to lose another of his few teeth and gain a bruised nose. A final kick to the groin and he was off, in agony, but alive. He had never crawled so fast in his entire life as he did to get away from that horrid place, where the very ground had turned to ash.

He liked dirt, yes, dirt. The raw earth, and all it offered. The plants that grew, the animals who shared it. He saw nothing like that in the wasteland that was Mordor. He saw Shelob on the way out. She was the only living being besides orcs in that place, and reminded him of the spiders he had captured and watched in jars in his youth. And she was oddly sparing of his life; he was grateful. He said to her that he hoped one day to help her in exchange. Whether he meant it or not, he couldn't remember.

That was the fate he had planned for the hobbits. But he could never do that now. He had agreed with Gollum to lead them there. He felt betrayed, scared even. But that was then, and this was now. Gollum was gone, and he was in charge of himself now. And it was revealed that master had not betrayed him, and in fact, had helped him.

No, Shelob would have to wait for the return favor. She wasn't getting these two…even if Sam was horrid to him. He had given him water, set his bones. No, she could have an orc, or nothing, even. She didn't matter anymore. They mattered; he could see it now. Being apart from them now felt unbearable.

That's why he had stopped the two at the Black Gate. He didn't want Frodo to suffer the same horror he had. He briefly imagined his master being gouged, and whipped into submission. Orcs

tearing the flesh of his groin, laughing at his pain. Then those horrible streching devices, which had finally broken him, the precious being stolen, and taken by 'him'. Even he wasn't sure which had scared him more. All he knew was that he wouldn't have it, couldn't bear it. He couldn't let them go. And if they had gone, Sméagol didn't question that he would have followed them in. Even he didn't know what he would do next.

The fire grew. Flames spread to the inner edge of the ring. More dead wood was piled on. Sam wished he had something to toss on, and smiled briefly at the idea of Sméagol somehow being able to catch a deer out in the woods and haul it back. But no, that lembas he had back a while ago would last. His stomach still craved something 'solid', however.

With a sigh, he considered the fish. But he knew Sméagol was not up to that task, yet. Maybe later. So instead, they all watched the fire, a different thought in each of their minds. Occasionally, the former ring bearer would twitch, sigh, or open his eyes, almost as though he were reliving something. But they all remained silent.

It was Frodo who spoke up. "Well, I'm ready to go to sleep." And as he did he yawned.

Sam nodded in acknowledgement. He stood up and walked over to the water, but stopped when he realized they all might need some light first. They rolled out their makeshift beds, blankets with a small pillow, and positioned next to one another. Dragging them, he determined they would sleep to the right of Sméagol's rock bed. Just in case he would need help in the middle of the night, which he had hoped dearly wouldn't happen.

Then came the tricky situation with what to do with their injured friend. Frodo noticed this, and began to look for what they could salvage for his own bed. He felt as though he didn't need a blanket, he could use his own elven cloak. Yet he wanted his friend to contribute to make Sméagol feel accepted. "Sam," he asked, "you can use my pillow tonight, I have my…." And he fumbled for an excuse. "We can share mine. Give yours to Sméagol, please?" Sam nodded, but gave him a strange glare.

Frodo laid down his older cloak, the one he had worn when he came to Lothlórien. He had kept it stowed away, just in case. He felt it best for him to sleep on that strange bed-like carving. It made it easier to attend to him from there. It was just their height, and it was better then the flat rock they had for beds. He then put down Sam's pillow, fluffing it.

Sméagol had lain quiet on the ground, and had stopped his writhing. He was silent as they lifted him onto his temporary bed. Laying him flat, Frodo realized this must have been the first time in ages that Sméagol's spine was straight. It cracked a bit, but it almost felt like a relief. He was about an inch taller than Frodo, the last remnants of firelight dancing on his pale features.

Frodo draped the blanket over him, and it managed to cover him whole. He looked across to his master with a small smile. "Thank you for the nice… things…" It took him a while to say it, but it was out.

"You are very welcome, Sméagol," Frodo said with a smile, very glad that he had at least enjoyed it. "Have you… ever slept in a bed, before… before…" He slipped on his phrasing.

"Yes… before." Then Sméagol paused, and turned his head. "Used to sleep on a big, comfy bed. Used to sleep on my stomach…" And as he said that, he gradually shifted in his position. He would stop occasionally, and change his movement to something less painful.

Frodo helped him, and Sméagol finally found his way to a comfortable position on his stomach, arms tucked beneath him. But the broken arm was articulated so that it lay away from his own crushing weight. His legs slightly crossed one another. Despite his injuries, he felt it the most comfortable way to sleep. Frodo repositioned his covers. Even if Sméagol was hot, the blanket would be good for him, he felt.

"Is that good?" he asked, hoping for a positive answer.

With a small smile, Sméagol answered. "It is good, master. You do good things for Sméagol… why?" And Frodo didn't need to search for a response at all.

"Because I believe you can be saved." And he melted Sméagol's heart with a kind glance.

"Now go to sleep. I'll be right here if you need anything." He reached over and grabbed one of Sam's pots, grimacing at the reaction he would get if Sam ever found out. "This is here if you need to throw up again…though I think it's best just to tell me. Just for an emergency, I guess."

Then he leaned over, gently kissed Sméagol on the forehead, and held his hand.

"Tomorrow we'll clean up those wounds. And maybe we can have a big fish dinner.

Does that sound good?" And Sméagol nodded, heartily. "Goodnight, Sméagol. Sleep well."


	8. Chapter 8

Frodo put out the fire, and he lay down next to Sam. He said goodnight to him, waking him up in the process, but then promptly fell back into a hazy sleep.

Sméagol lay awake for a short time and felt the strange and foreign pleasures of a bed. It, too, brought back memories, but he didn't want to think of any more as he was trying to rest. For a moment, the Gollum presence that still lingered taunted him, but he was immune to it now. The power of the Ring was impossible to resist, but he was familiar with Gollum's trickery, and steered clear of it. He promised himself he would not fall down into that dark pit again. He would not fail his master. He had made a promise, just like Sam had; he would not disappoint Frodo. And in doing so, he would help them both, though he was unaware of that.

The older hobbit loved the comfort that the blanket gave him. He snuggled into its every inch, and made a small bundle of it for him to clutch in reassurance as he slept. The pillow held Sam's unique, rough scent. But he liked it; it reminded him of his own days working in his grandmother's garden. He enjoyed it, but it was hard, laborious work. And he would much rather be fishing with the very worms he picked out of the ground as he dug.

He breathed deep, and smiled. "This just might work, Sméagol, this just might work…."

And Sméagol was gently lulled into sleep by the smell of Gamgee, the comfort of Frodo's kindness, and the soft breathing of both hobbits at the foot of his bed. The very idea that they were there, for him, was enough.

Sam awoke first the next morning. Joints and body aching, but still well enough to feel remotely good. He groaned, and moved his hands through his hair. His thoughts then turned to Frodo, who was still asleep beside him, his tired face a mixture of exhaustion and kindness. But then Sam looked at his master's hands, and noticed how they grasped the Ring hidden under his shirt. His feet moved, stretching against one another, and he mumbled something undecipherable in his sleep.

Disturbed, Sam shook Frodo awake. He woke with a start, and squeezed the Ring tightly.

With fright in his eyes, he scanned the room. As he saw Sam, he calmed down, but his grip on the Ring remained the same. "Oh Sam…" he cried out, and breathed out in relief.

"It's just you…" And then he lay back down, eyes open and awake.

"Did you have a nightmare?" Sam asked, a little on edge.

Frodo shook his head, his glorious black curls shifting. "Just… you startled me." He then sighed, and looked back at his dear friend. "Did you sleep well?"

Sam looked at the floor and considered. "Well enough, I suppose."

Frodo smiled in response. "That's all we need right now, I guess." Both shared a smile and a small laugh. After lying for a few minutes, Frodo was suddenly filled with worry when he remembered Sméagol. He swiftly turned his head, and looked at his companion across the room; now he lay with his face to the wall, his back to them. His breathing was nearly silent, and both could barely hear it.

Concerned, Frodo gently rose to his feet to check him over. He reached the bed, and silently watched. During the night Sméagol had shifted to a slightly different position.

Now he slept partially on his side. All the while he breathed slowly and peacefully.

.

He lay there, looking like a sleeping child. Frodo smiled to himself. He appeared so innocent, yet was tainted by the power of Sauron. Occasionally... he would twitch in his sleep. A full body shake would follow. His face would clench and appear frightened…and then he would return to his peaceful state.

Frodo decided to let him sleep. Eru knew he certainly needed it. And so, with a slightly lightened heart, he walked back to Sam. The two spent the morning without the company of Sméagol, for once. They talked of the current situation. Both decided they would have to be here for at least a week. And even then, they doubted the nursing of his wounds would end there. No one even mentioned what would happen post-quest.

Just then, the sound of an awakening Sméagol could be heard from across the cavern.

They both sat up, but it was Sam, strangely enough, who began to walk over. Frodo tried to speak, but found it hard to find what to say. So instead he closed his mouth and watched.

Sam stood before the stone bed, and watched as Sméagol rolled over onto his back. His eyes slowly blinked open and adjusted to the dank light. He became aware of a twinge of pain in his ribcage and still-healing injuries, their aches beginning to return. He let out a low groan, and then noticed the figure that was staring at him, fascinated.

"Did you sleep well?" Sam asked. His voice was gruff, but there was an ounce of kindness in there somewhere. Sméagol's eyes widened a touch as he tried to comprehend just what the hell was going on. "Since when did he care how I thought? Or how I'm doing, as a matter of fact…?" he wondered.

It took him a minute to register, then respond. "…Yes," he croaked out. Hearing how horrible he sounded, he then cleared his throat several times.

"Does it… still hurt?" Sam asked as his gaze drifted to his exposed arm.

"Yes. It aches… but it's better than before."

Sam nodded to show he understood. "Does anything else hurt? You know, besides the obvious…?" Again, Sméagol was amazed that the other hobbit cared, but nodded with a slight hesitation.

"Yes… my ribs."

Sam then slowly pulled back the blanket to reveal Sméagol's thin chest. Because his ribcage was so visible, it was easy to see which one was broken. The third to the right was clearly bruised heavily. Dark blue-and-black veins and markings traveled from its ruined epicenter. Sam bit his lip in thought; he didn't know how he would fix that.

Frodo stood up, despite Sam's urging to rest. He walked over to see just what the state of their patient was. Sméagol blushed in embarrassment at the new level of attention given too him. Before he knew it, the two were poking and prodding at him and discussing ways to heal the various ailments he sported.

"I wonder what we can do about these bruises..." remarked Sam as he soothed his fingers along a few located on his right arm. Sméagol winced a bit from the touch, but allowed it. "Neither do I..." And Frodo sighed as he tried to think.

Sméagol closed his eyes and simply let them do what they needed to. One of them, he didn't know who, put a hand on his head to check his temperature. "He's not that hot…" Sam commented. "He's a bit chilled, though." And almost on cue, Sméagol shivered and formed a few goosebumps. Sméagol never noticed it until now, the chill, but now that he did it was overpowering. If it weren't for the two hobbits assessing him now, he would have pulled the covers over and attempted to warm up.

But no, his body was exposed, and was rather embarrassed by the whole thing. "Sméagol?" His master asked. He opened his eyes in response. "Does anything else hurt?"

This made Sméagol shy away, blushing even worse now. Frodo noticed, and automatically knew what was wrong. "I see…" he muttered, giving Sam a worried look.

Then a rather obvious feeling arose inside the thin hobbit. "I have to go…" he whispered, and tugged at Frodo's sleeve. Again, thankfully, he didn't have to elaborate. His master understood, and looked at his companion.

"We have to help him outside."

Sam wordlessly agreed, taking his place at Sméagol's legs to hoist him up. They hurriedly carried him out into the spilling sunshine, and then set him down on the hard rock.

Sméagol rolled over onto his tender stomach and slowly began to crawl. His joints ached from not moving properly in hours. Frodo followed silently behind him, making sure he got there all right. He crested a small ridge, all the while moving in awkward jerks and spiking pain. As he moved, he slipped a bit and cursed under his breath. But there was Frodo, there to catch him before he fell down the small crest.

Sméagol looked back to the younger hobbit, who held his uninjured shoulder. His face filled with surprise and sadness. "Here…" Frodo offered, and bent down to take his right arm around on his back. They held onto one another, and the two bearers of the One ring, current and former, helped one another up the small hill.

They reached the other side, a short journey made long by Sméagol's handicap. Frodo let him down, and turned. Sniffling and once again embarrassed, Sméagol moved away a few more feet and, painfully, managed to urinate. He had to sit and breath for a few minutes, the agony was too deep. After he was finally finished, he fixed himself up and made his way, grudgingly over to his master.

Frodo had heard the pain Sméagol was trying to suppress. But he said nothing; after all, what could he possibly do about it anyway?

Bending low, he again helped him down the small rock crest towards Sam, who was waiting all too urgently for their return. When he caught sight of them, his worry faded.

The two then went back inside, but Sméagol could still feel an intense amount of pain from his genitals. He lay back against the cool rock bed, sweat forming beads even though he was chilled. The two other companions were busying themselves with what was to be done today. Frodo was trying to convince Sam that a fish dinner would work well for all of them, but his arms continued to shake, and a black cloud was beginning to descend over him, his mind fuzzing over with anguish. He let out a low warble.

His master stood, and looked over in his direction. And there lay Sméagol, a look of pain and torture in his face. Frodo hurriedly stepped over next to him, concerned to see what had happened now. "What's wrong, Sméagol?"

He gasped in response, and waved Frodo closer. Slowly, modestly, he whispered what the problem was. "It hurts… down there…." And he turned his head away. Frodo sighed, contemplating what to do.

Gollum had never cared about much about modesty, but Sméagol was always easily embarrassed and rather private. They reached a compromise to keep the remnants of his pants, which had worn away to become a scant loincloth. He often kept things to himself, even horrible illnesses that were easily treatable.

Frodo still had yet to clean Sméagol's other wounds, that seemed to be the next step.

Something about his behavior seemed to indicate that he didn't want Sam to know about his private problem. Frodo knew, however, that he would need his help as well.

"Sam, we need to do something with these cuts, gashes…." He trailed off. "He's hurting, and… I don't know what else to do but clean him up some more." Sam hung his head and ran his hand through his sandy blonde hair. "I can see what I can cook up… you know, for the pain…" he muttered, testing out ideas. With another sigh, he rubbed his neck.

"Maybe some soup for his flu or fever, or whatever he's got. You have to get him to eat it, though…." Frodo nodded. He knew it would be hard, but even if it took all night, and he had to pour it down his throat, so be it. Sméagol had to get better; there was no other option.

He wasn't sure whether Sméagol had heard any of that or not, but it had to be done regardless. Frodo's mind whirred with possibilities. Sméagol needed to be comforted as well as cleansed. And he only knew one way to do that.

Frodo looked over to the fish pool; it was bigger then he remembered. A slightly larger, mostly empty basin ran alongside it. It looked as though it could be filled if needed.

"Sam, start making a fire…" he thought aloud, then began to help himself. "I'm going to give him a bath," he whispered into his companion's ear.

"What?" Sam asked, incredulous. Frodo looked back to Sméagol; he hadn't reacted to the outburst. "I know… but he needs to relax, and those wounds are still filthy. Not to mention he's just plain dirty in general. It's the healthy thing to do. We have plenty of water, and there's a depression in the rock over there…." He waved his hand in its general direction.

Sam considered that, then let out a breath he had been holding for the duration of Frodo's explanation. "Whatever you say, Mr. Frodo. But you have to do it…." Frodo nodded to show his understanding. The fire was made with the rest of the dry wood, and water was scooped from the small fish pond. With the small stream refilling it, it became a invaluable resource.


	9. Chapter 9

Pot after pot was boiled, eleven all together, and collected into a small bathing pool. Sam briefly considered taking a bath himself. His back ached from the strenuous lifting and toiling over the wretch. But at the thought of joining them, his skin crawled, and he sat down instead to try and relax.

Frodo collected the soap and washrag. He also carried over a small towel he had stored away. Sam watched as he stood, and appeared to think for a moment. Then he removed the Elven cloak, undoing the brooch, folding it, and setting it aside.

And then his master walked over to Sméagol, who lay there whining. He said something to him, low and indecipherable. Then their patient hesitated, and Sam got up and walked a bit closer.

"Come now, Sméagol," Frodo urged. "I'm going to give you a nice, warm bath. You need it desperately. Do you remember the last time you bathed?"

The question took its effect on Sméagol, and it almost brought him to tears. "A long time ago…." And he left it at that.

Sam bit his lip, trying to resist the temptation to run over there and change Frodo's mind.

He knew nothing he said would matter. "So, you do remember? Do you remember how nice it was?" Sméagol closed his eyes, seemed to think for a moment, and then nodded. "Well, now you can have one. The water is warm, there's soap, and…." He paused for a moment and tried to think up more. "And I'll help you, I'll be there. Come on now, I'll help you…" he repeated, gently leaning forward. Frodo wrapped his arms around the sweaty figure and slowly began to sit him up.

And as he sat up, Sméagol exploded into a cough, a normal, dry cough and not of the raspy sort "Gollum" usually made. He fell into Frodo's embrace; even he was surprised. Sam rushed over and helped his master bear the light and fragile load. Sméagol's hot breath hit his face, and Sam flinched in response. He didn't catch a whiff, but it still left a horrid expression on his face.

They both carried their pain-stricken friend and set him down at his new bathing pool.

Sméagol took his time in sitting up and rubbed his head with his right hand. He gazed absently at the warm pool. Steam rose from its flat, translucent surface. Again, Sam bit his lip. He really wanted to take a bath, too. The dirt had formed into the crevices in his skin, growing more irritated by the day.

That was it. The temptation was too strong, and with a nervous fidgeting, he began to undo the brooch that held his cloak together. Sméagol gently swayed back and forth, hazy and oblivious to the current situation. But Frodo gently caught him, whispering something reassuring into his pointy ear.

He watched as Frodo began to remove the dirtied cloths that had acted as bandages. Each had an all- encompassing blood stain that had since turned brown or dark red. He tossed each one in the water, hoping to clean them as he bathed. With great care, he removed the splints and sat them aside for future use. His healing limbs were still tender, no doubt.

But he still kept his new loincloth, at least for now. Sméagol asked for it specifically, in a whisper in his master's ear before he started. "Why is he so modest, anyway?" Frodo wondered, curious. Surely, they were all males here. Perhaps all those years alone had taken a toll on his sexuality?

Frodo proceeded to remove the rest of his clothing. Sam was still nervous and timid in this situation, but he watched, making sure to be near if any help was needed. Still pretty much out of it, Sméagol was dragged fragilely into the shallow end of the pool. His naked master shifted him into a safe position, then walked around and hopped into the slightly deeper end. It came up to his chest.

"Sam, you coming in?" Frodo asked. Sam's only answer was a swift derobing, following suit and jumping carefully into the steaming warm water.

Sméagol lay in the enveloping heat, a small incline holding his head above the water. He helped keep himself up with his uninjured leg, and his good arm, which gripped a nearby rock. His eyes were still closed, mind still hazy from the pain emanating from his groin.

But he did feel the water, glad to be in his favorite element again. Only this time a unique sensation came over his body, the steamy warmth relaxing his constantly tensed muscles; he laid his head back and took it all in.

Inside his body a war that rivaled any known battle in history was taking place. White blood cells flew about, attacking and killing as much invading bacteria as it could find.

Sméagol was winning, but only by a thin margin. The newly introduced heat of the bathing pool was enough to boil away newly advancing enemies at the wound front. The swellings had gone down, and the pus lessened. And now blood clots were finally beginning to form over the large gashes and lesions, though slowly and poorly.

A slight stinging sensation was felt at the open cuts, but he knew that this was a good thing. Nobody in Middle-Earth at this time knew of the small micro-organisms that caused disease and sickness, but they did know what worked and what didn't.

Sméagol's mind was gradually winning a slightly different battle. The brain cells present were working overtime, and the ones that had been damaged from Gollum's nasty presence were thankfully not dead, but dormant. Some were steadily awaking; others, however, would not do so until the Ring was truly gone. For as long as he was in its evil presence, the steadily healing Sméagol would never be safe.

Addiction was a terrible thing, and the Ring worked in many ways. It chose its victims, which is why some fell to its deception more than others. It could wield you and use you, and no one was safe. Not even a curious Stoor hobbit on a warm spring day.


	10. Chapter 10

Like a rubber band, his mind snapped back from that painful memory to the current day. They were now filtering back like some obscure dream, but he saw them as more of a nightmare. He still longed for the feel of the 'precious' in his hands, and remembered when it used to comfort him. Used to whisper untrue things into his ear.

His right hand balled into a fist, clenching so hard it turned white and drew blood. When it lied to him, now that he could think, it lied to him. No more.

The pain was gently beginning to ebb away. Sméagol heard the slight commotion of water shifting. He opened his eyes to see the two hobbits naked, standing in the water and beginning to lather up with the soap. Cocking his head in a surprised fashion, he began to sit up.

Frodo noticed, and looked over in his direction. Sméagol sat up completely, backbone curving ever so slightly. Even on the small and shallow ledge he sat on, the water came up to his waist. He breathed deep, the hot air making it slightly difficult. His dark, loosely curled, fragile, dry yet soft hair usually looked brown and lightweight. But the addition of water bogged it down and clumped it up. Now it appeared black, and a hint of its curliness returned as a tragic reminder of its former glory. It hung partially in front of his face, and the other behind his pointy ears.

"You see, doesn't this feel good, Sméagol?" his master asked with a smile. He then slowly walked closer to his companion, and held out his hand. "Here, why don't you come in deeper?"

Sméagol had to admit, it felt wonderful. It was almost like feeling years of grime wash away. So he took his master's hand, and he gently let himself fall into the deeper end with the two other hobbits. Sam took a step back, a look of nervousness on his face.

The water held Sméagol aloft, only occasionally needing to balance on his left leg, moving with his right arm. He could even move his broken limbs a little without much pain.

"It's good, master," Sméagol spoke up. "It helps." And he dipped his head below the surface for a moment to wet his head. Frodo smiled, comforted by his well-being. Sméagol reached below the surface and grabbed at his own loincloth, untying it. It had been bloodied as well. He lay back against the wall of the pool and let the warmth of the water have its full effect on his mutilated body.

Frodo watched as the emaciated being tried to relax himself. It gave him a sense of satisfaction that he was able to help the tortured soul. He continued to lather himself up, relieved to get off the filth that he'd managed to collect from the journey. Rubbing the soap through his hair, he managed to clean his black curls. Running his hands through his hair, he massaged his dirty scalp, then dipped into the water to try and rinse it through.

After he felt he was finished, Frodo handed the rag and bar of soap to Sam. He, too, began to wash. Then Frodo turned back to Sméagol, watching as he opened his eyes a little. He shifted slightly in his step and leaned less against the rock. Making a deep noise in his throat, he wiped some dried fluids from his eyes with his free hand.

Then Sméagol slipped a little, but managed to catch himself. A look of surprise came to his eyes, though. Concerned, the Ring-bearer took a step forward, and he knew what he most likely had to do. Sméagol looked up at his master as he approached him. "Master?"

He asked in that sad, timid voice.

"Hush. Here...." And Frodo ignored Sam's presence as he wrapped his arms around the lithe figure. His back to his other friend, he kept Sméagol elevated slightly above the rock bottom. Sméagol let out a wistful sigh and fell back into his embrace. Right then, nothing else mattered. He knew that Sam's eyes were burrowing into his back. Who wouldn't stare at the obvious scene beginning to unfold?

Sam couldn't turn away; he merely stood, paralyzed and silent, staring at the two. What had started as a caring relationship between them had grown and become something more. It wasn't necessarily sexual, just a desire to get closer, by any means necessary.

They were bound to one another; Frodo merely wanted to bring the two halves together.

"What's master doing?" Sméagol asked, a confused and bewildered tone in his voice.

Even Frodo didn't know; he simply held him closer to his chest, Sméagol's head in the underside of his neck.

"Trust master, Sméagol. Trust us." And Frodo gently kissed his thinning scalp. Sméagol shivered in his arms and snuggled closer.

Then the sound of Sam steadily approaching became apparent. Frodo froze in his actions; the only reason he had never proceeded was because Sam was always near. Always watching.

Sam came close, body still covered in soap. But his gaze was not of hate or sickness, but of desperation. "I know I can't stop you…" he whispered into Frodo's ear, "so I might as well join you…." And he looked down into the stressed, tensed face of Sméagol. Biting his lip and closing his eyes, he leaned forward and began to dig his face into his thin shoulder, inhaling his unique scent and savoring the pure taboo they were engaging in.

Sam looked up with sorrowful eyes, unsure of what even he wanted. Frodo's mouth was slightly open in surprise and astonishment. He was naked, except for the chain around his neck, on it the object of Sméagol's obsession.

But Frodo noticed he never reached for it, shying away from its presence. He no longer feared him, and put his full trust in the older, wiser, hobbit. Frodo, along with Sam, began to kiss Sméagol along the shoulder. But Sam was also washing him tenderly, all along his chest.

Sméagol looked as though he didn't know how to react, eyes swiftly darting from one to the other. He wasn't even sure whether he wanted it; the idea of Sam touching him… like that... was both alien and frightening. "Sam mustn't…no, you mustn't…." Then he moaned softly as San nipped the corner of his right ear; he had found his sweet spot.

Sméagol twitched in his master's arms, and it was apparent to both at this point that he was beginning to grow aroused. Panting, he let his head loll over to his right and peered at the entrance of the cave. Eyes slowly closing, he yielded easily to temptation.

Frodo watched as Sam moved the washcloth over Sméagol's pale and dirtied skin, soap suds left in its wake. The bearer of the Ring held him firmly in place as he was gently cleansed. It wouldn't end there, however. With a new vigor, he nuzzled his patient's face and shoulders, his hot breath traveling over his chilled back, causing him to shiver and response.

For at least an hour the three did just this, never going too far; they were afraid to, perhaps. Sam never dared travel below the nether-regions. He ran the soap through Sméagol's few loose strands of hair, then gently began to message his scalp. Frodo moved his hands upward and helped, moving his head slightly in jerks here and there, scooping up some water then, pouring it over him to rinse.

Sméagol's ear was being teased again. He fell back into his master's body, shaking with rising sexual energy. Someone had to make a step forward, and it was Frodo. He leaned over to his companion and whispered into his ear. Sam looked at his master with a gaze of complete and utter horror, but Frodo's face was stern, stare blank. So Sam swallowed, then nodded, and understood completely. "But be gentle…" Frodo added. "He says it still hurts."

Sam reluctantly dropped to his knees and inspected the package before him. Sméagol's genitals were lined with deep scratches and horrible blisters; he could see them below under the surface of the water. There were horrible welts above each testicle, and it was obvious to Sam what had been attempted on him. They appeared to have stopped right before they got to the spermatic cord; he still appeared capable of ejaculating, though it looked as though it could be painful. Sam's skin crawled at the thought.

Frodo moved his hands down Sméagol's thin and wiry backbone, trying his best to please him, love him. Then Sméagol jerked, and let out a low groan at another's touch. His breath became shallow, voice high-pitched.

Sam closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and then with a slow reluctance placed his mouth over Sméagol's shaft. There appeared to be small jolts of pain and unease, but low moans made their way through. Frodo wrapped his arms around Sméagol even tighter, afraid he might slip and injure himself again.

Switching from his mouth to his hands, Sam sensed the buildup of Sméagol's soon-to-be orgasm. He spit several times, a look of horrid disgust awash on his face, but still, he continued. Then it happened; Sméagol bucked into his hands with sudden force, and along with a squeal of pain, fluid was collected for use in the next act.

It was transferred to the awaiting hands of Frodo, who spread it over his very erect member, where it joined the already releasing pre-cum. Then he eagerly pushed inside the tortured being. He pushed inside fully, until his chest was against Sméagol's thin back, arms around his chest, face pressed into the back of his neck. Sméagol's reaction was sudden; he cried out a bit in pain from the sudden penetration. Closing his eyes,

Frodo stopped so that Sméagol could grow accustomed to the feel of him deep within him. The warbling lowered, and Sméagol's breathing became less labored.

"Does it hurt…?" Frodo asked, scared that he might be causing the already hurt being more pain.

Sméagol nodded a little, but just as Frodo was about to reluctantly pull out, he reached back and grabbed his arm. "No, stay…" And so he did.

Sam embraced the steadily accommodating Sméagol; he could no longer stand being left out of the loop. He gently kissed any amount of skin he could find, bile rising in his stomach all the while. Then he reached to his left to collect the rag and soap. He was no longer shy, and washed Sméagol as Frodo began to thrust.

Frodo cried out in obvious pleasure, feeling as though he had truly reached a new level with Sméagol, who was now crying just like himself. Nearing climax, he looked over to

Sam to see his arms wrapped around their patient. Because that's exactly who he was; their job was to heal this poor soul.

'He's getting therapy, all right,' Frodo thought, and he smiled as he reached orgasm.

For Sméagol, the rest of the night was a literal blur. Although he didn't black out, he

phased out of reality to awake later in the night.

Sam, however, was all too awake. But now he was in a sort of daze, mind fuzzing over as he gently rinsed the satisfied Sméagol off and carried him out of the pool. Frodo continued to wash off the remnants of their union, then slowly exited the still-steaming water.

Sam managed to carry Sméagol up and out all by himself, Sméagol's body dripping with moisture. Almost mindlessly, Sam sat him down next to the bare fire ring and retrieved a towel from Frodo's pack. He handed it to his dark-haired friend; none of them spoke.

Even thinking was muted. Frodo finished by rubbing his hair dry, then gave the towel back to Sam.

After thoroughly drying himself, he swiftly moved to their patient. Frodo helped, and kneeled down to lift him up into a sitting position. His hair was gently wiped dry, the fingernails picked free of any grime left over, the only moisture present in the curves of his ears. Eyes closed, Sméagol sighed in a heavenly manner and fell against the still naked Sam; he jerked in response, but was too degenerated to move him. Instead,

Sméagol fell into a deep, deep sleep in his strong arms.

They sat for at least an hour in silence. It turned to darkness outside. Sam, in all his tenderness, managed to re-bandage Sméagol's arm and leg. He still remained naked, however, as the other Elven-made bandages were being washed due to their blood and pus stains. They now resided at the bottom of the bathing pool, soaking in the soapy water.

Sméagol lay now on his side, his steadily drying brown hair matted and lying about. One could have sworn it had grown a few inches longer, his eyes closed in a comfy sleep.

Frodo lovingly placed his blanket atop him, and made sure that he had another soft blanket beneath him. Sam saw his master smile as he rubbed the injured hobbit's head in fond memory.

"He's getting better…you know," Frodo said, breaking the sacred silence. Sam looked up, face blank, as he had grown pale and sickly from the experience. Frodo gazed downwards, not wanting to lock eyes with his friend.

"...I know," Sam muttered. "He's defiantly different. Even I can see that…." And he trailed off as he turned his head towards the cave entrance. The sweet sound of crickets and frogs filled the air, casting a nightly harmony that seemed to fit the mood.


	11. Chapter 11

"Listen Sam, I'm…I…." And then he sighed, and gripped the bridge of his nose in sudden stress. "I'm sorry I made you do that. I should have never, even… washed him, I mean, I knew it would drive me to that, and I did it anyway."

Sam nodded, and sat for a long moment in the dark. "I can still taste him, you know," hestated plainly. "I'm just glad I didn't have to swallow."

Frodo jerked, and stared at his friend, who sat across from him. "I would never make youdo that…." And another silence spread across the room."Thank you, though," Frodo stated, once again stopping the quiet, "…for helping me help him." He smiled a bit, all to show his dear companion everything was all right.

"Well, you're welcome, Mr. Frodo." And he smiled faintly back. His master then looked in the direction of the sleeping Sméagol sitting several feet away from them.

"I don't even like other hobbit men, you know, like that," he said truthfully. "It's just, Icare about him, Sam. Like I said before, I want to help him. I can see myself in him, ifyou believe that. I can see beyond what he has become, and hope... and hope… that everything can be all right. You know?"

Sam looked up and into his master's eyes, finally beginning to see what he had meant allalong. He watched as Frodo's eyes began to fill with tears. "It's just… it's just that I think he needs to feel what love is. We need each other, maybe not like that… like what we just had. That was my first time, you know…"

Nodding, Sam replied, "Me too……and, well, I enjoyed it. And I think he did too. And that's all right, isn't it? Did you, Sam?" he asked.

"Well… a little, I suppose." Sam turned his head away from them both, and shook downthe whole length of his body, shamed and tingling with embarrassment.

"I think it helped him," Frodo then said, lip trembling; then he smiled again. He leaned forward and put a hand on Sam's lonely shoulder. "And that's what we're here to do, right?" Swallowing hard, both nodded, both agreed.

From then on, there would be no more argument over what had happened that day. They both accepted it as both a act of compassion for Sméagol, and a need to be somehow closer to the tortured soul. And it wouldn't end there. The battle of the wounds was nearing its end within his body. A sickness still thrived in his mind and stomach, however, temperature both rising and falling into extremes. His bruises lightened to more of a blue color. The abrasions scabbed over, even the horrid head and leg gouges. And below the waist, he was beginning to feel remotely normal again.

Lying on the unusually soft floor, he was enshrouded by the hobbit's blankets, both donated to the cause, his head and injured leg supported by recently fluffed pillows. Unusually for him, he lay sprawled on his back, head turned to his left, body twisted at the waist. The injured left arm was out to his side, the other bent at the elbow with his fingers inches from his forehead. His right leg lay on the pillow, straight, the left bent and overlapping it.

The blanket was wrapped around his waist, discreet in covering the night's healing. His chest was partially covered, and his feet swathed haphazardly from his own moving. Sméagol swore that he'd never felt this good, at least after the Ring came to him. He felt clean and refreshed, despite never liking to take baths. Oh, his family had the money and desire for it, but he was still the least cleaned of all his kin.

But this, this was nice. That feeling of dirt rubbing between his joints was gone, although he'd never realized he had it. However, when it was gone, it felt sweet. Finally, he felt cared about. And he had never expected it from those two. Never once expected… love. In that form or another.

He purred gently in his sleep, sounding very much like a cat in heat, then pulled the blanket even closer, breathing in full the scent that covered it. He blocked out all noise, his sleep deep and strong. Inside his mind whirred thoughts of the pool. He now knew this as the 'real' forbidden pool, for the actions in it were all but accepted. This pool was a much more memorable affair then the previous one.

But his dreams slowly faded to memories of the past, intertwined with the future. He was truly Sméagol again, fully clothed in those blackish brown jacket and pants, and with a full head of hair that he never maintained. His body healthy, skin a normal, sun-baked tone. Master and the Sam-hobbit were there with him. They sat under a huge tree, next to his favorite shore-fishing spot along the Gladden.

He showed them all the beauty of the Gladden Fields, and the Stoor's Shire, which was equally beautiful and even richer then Hobbiton at its time. No one lived to remember it, except, that is, himself. He didn't know it, but the remnants of his family would later leave the Gladden and thrive in Buckland, interbreeding with the locals and forming the Old Bucks and Brandybucks, water-loving like the genes that made them. And although not shunned from hobbit society, they were never fully accepted. The Stoors also tended to be a tad more adventuresome, and often got into mischief, some more than others. Merry and Pippin couldn't possibly have guessed that their behavior could be partially explained by their own blood.

Frodo was half Brandybuck, therefore half Stoor… and so, he was half Sméagol. The same blood beat through their veins. The same genetics made up their body tissue. Their genes were like a roadmap, leading them on a path to one another.

And both, at their coming of age, had found the One Ring. At thirty-three, little had they known that they were both the same age. The year the Ring took them, their growth and aging ceased. Frodo was beginning to show the signs, and just like Sméagol, madness was encroaching on his mind and darkness creeping onto his soul.

But not in Sméagol's dreams, oh, no. The two other hobbits smoked, occasionally offering it to him. He would take it, but would cough too heavily to keep it up. He never did care for it much. But he would smile and laugh, play-hitting his two companions. Then Sméagol smiled and looked towards the water. Lilies with pink flowers dotted the emerald green. Yellow Flag Irises, his favorite flower, grew everywhere. They were abundant here. The fields themselves were known and named after them. The sun reflected on the marshes' surface, but the reflection suddenly became disturbed. Ripples formed around an object in the water.

Something was coming out of the river.

Déagol. His body rotten, a zombified shell of his former self. What were once brown eyes, unusual for the Stoor breed (blue eyes were their popular trademark), were now clouded-over white orbs. His skin had turned even paler then Sméagol's own, hair scraggly and falling out in clumps as he walked. The clothing he had worn on the day of the tragedy was tattered and worn. Dirt, soot, twigs, and leaves stuck in his hair, clothes, everywhere.

Sméagol's mouth trembled, but he remained silent. The other hobbits had the samereaction, then slowly turned towards him. He turned to meet their gaze, mouth trying to work, but nothing came.

"Smeeeegooollll…" Déagol's voice wavered. "Who are your new friends? Why haven't you introduced us...?"

Breaking into tears, Sméagol covered his face, except his eyes. He could not look away.

"Why, what's wrong Sméagol? It's time for your birthday party. They can come with us, they can alllll come with us, Smeeeeegoooollll…"

His voice wavered again, and he began to walk even closer.

"What's wrong, Sméagol?" he repeated, voice changing into a deep, resonant and all-too-familiar tone. Similar to Gollum's, almost. Déagol leaned over, then gripped his cousin's chin, and Sméagol looked into the dead eyes of his murdered friend.

"Don't you want to go fishing, again? It won't be like last time, I promise!" And he smiled with blackened, sharpened teeth.

"You're...not...real..." Sméagol said between clenched teeth, removing Déagol's hand. But

he responded with a mere cock of his head, eyeing him strangely with glossed-over pupils.

"Whatever has come over you, my friend?" The last part was drawn out, spit with venom and rage, on purpose. Then with a sudden lurch, Déagol snapped forward, inches away from his face, when Sméagol started awake.

His eyes caught a glimpse of the cave, but he swiftly closed them; he was still tired and desired sleep. Only bits and pieces remained from the nightmare. He was too sleepy to dwell on it now. It would be forgotten when he truly woke up. But he shivered, and held himself a bit closer. Sweet dreams returned, a small smile reforming on his face. Peace returned, but his toes and smile still twitched in his sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

He awoke some hours later to the muffled sound of pans clacking. This time, though, it was a relaxed and comfortable awaking, the horrible dream diminished and irrelevant. At least, he hoped it would stay that way. He trembled at the remaining bits that still clung to his memory, violently shoving them from his slowly reviving brain. Soon it disappeared, and continued with other, more pleasant thoughts. He felt fantastic, smiling absently as he slowly writhed in his covers. The soft sound of the hobbits conversing only added to the atmosphere. It was only a little chilly, and it bit a little at his limbs. He simply wrapped himself up a tad better in his warm and comfy haphazard bed.

With a wistful sigh, he felt the warmth of the newly made fire. He watched the shapes of the two hobbits in the firelight; they sat at the opposite ends of the fire ring. Sam looked to be preparing a meal, attempting to sizzle something in a skillet. He was currently sitting back, bored. Apparently, he had nothing to throw into the pan. Frodo laughed a little and shook his head. Sam smirked back. "What's so funny?"

"It's just…well, ironic. We have tons of fish right here, but we can't catch them. Just when we could use them the most, too." Then he too sat back and gently watched the fire. Sméagol felt refreshed, a new life upon him, and rolled over to watch the two. "What time of day is it?" he asked absently.

The two looked up, a bit surprised by the suddenness of his voice. Frodo looked outside of the cave. "About… two 'o clock in the morning, I'd wager. We really should be asleep." He then nudged Sam. "But, us hobbits get hungry." He smiled back warmly at their patient.

With a quick flash of a smile, Sméagol then cocked his head in thought. "Do nice hobbitses have any water?" he asked, as kindly as he could muster. "Sure, there's plenty coming from the stream." And with that, Frodo stood up, grabbed the skin, and proceeded to collect some.

Frodo felt good all throughout; he was helping. He would never pass up the opportunity to do so. He walked up and handed the full water skin to his injured companion. As he squirted it into his mouth, Sméagol drank nearly all of it in one gulp. Proceeding to lick his teeth, he paused for a moment, then reached for his mouth.

"Is there something wrong with your mouth?" Frodo asked curiously, sitting down beside him. Sméagol seemed to inspect his mouth with his tongue more, then answered. "My teeth…one of them is missing… and some more are starting to grow back." He seemed totally shocked at the prospect of gaining teeth, when he was so used to losing them over the years.

"Here, let me see…." And Sméagol let him gently open his mouth as Frodo took a peek inside. His mouth was in visibly bad shape. Only around seven teeth remained, and those that still existed were pointy and degraded. It looked as though they had been forcibly sharpened.

"Sméagol, what did you do to your teeth?" Frodo asked incredulously, forgetting himself. Backing up a bit and closing his mouth, Sméagol looked deep into his master's eyes.

"When Gollum had me, he changed my body. He sharpened our teeth with a stone; it made it easier to kill goblins." Then he sighed and looked down at his hands, inspecting his worn and tired fingers.

"Our teeth would just… fall out. My mouth would be filled with blood for days, sometimes. There was nothing I could do, though…"

He drifted off, still staring at his hands. "There… was… nothing… I… could… do…." The words were drawn out as his gaze wandered into blank space. Tears began to drift down his face, a pang of pain resonating in Frodo's heart. Something told him Sméagol meant more than just his teeth, too. Slowly, and with some timidness, he wrapped his arms around the lithe being.

Looking up to Sam, he noticed that he was watching them. He made no move to stop them. Frodo felt Sméagol clutch him suddenly, completely wrapping his arms around the other hobbit. Burying his face deep in his master's shirt, the floodgates began to open. Sméagol cried deeply, sobs reaching to high whines and wails. "We killed him!" he cried, over and over. Frodo's mind and body quivered at his words, barely able to keep hold of Sméagol as he wept. "And there was nothing I could do…" His hand traced up and felt around the ring under the cloth, squeezed it tightly, then let go.

Frodo looked down into Sméagol's eyes, his own beginning to glisten with tears. Gently, he pulled him closer into his chest. "There, now." He spoke quietly. "Shhhhh, master is here." Although he had to admit, he didn't know what he could possibly say. Who had Sméagol killed, and why? "Sméagol loves master…." Sméagol spoke in a low voice into his shirt. He almost cried himself into another short sleep, but feared the nightmare, so, instead, he looked up into the eyes of Frodo. "I'll tell you about it…" he said, as the memory was the only one thatwas complete, and all too familiar.

Sam tiptoed over and sat close to his friend, ears ready and mind open.

"It all started on a pleasant, warm spring day…My birthday…"

And so they were told of the finding of the One Ring, and the corruption of Sméagol.


	13. Chapter 13

His tale ended. He had entered the Misty Mountains, and there he had dwelled for centuries. He told of his birthday morning, how he came to go fishing with his cousin, Déagol. Then the finding of the One Ring came into play, and it was as though a dark cloud settled over everyone in the cave. His descent into madness caused even Sam to cringe as Sméagol once again fell to tears, only to again be comforted by Frodo.

"Sméagol…" Frodo began. "I…I had no idea…" And he was at a loss for words. Sam's jaw failed to work; he only shook his head, why was arguable. "Gandalf told me your life was a sad story. But I, I just didn't know."

Sam looked up, and for the first time, he, too, was beginning to tear up, a single droplet rolling down his cheek. "I apologize, Sméagol. I… I had no idea what you've been through." He then looked down at the cave floor, mind no doubt whirring in intense thought. "And, well, I guess I'm sorry for everything else, too. I judged you before I knew you. I should know better."

Sméagol nodded, then swallowed in concentrated thought. "I'm sorry for biting you." Sam smirked, then nodded back. An understanding had been reached. Frodo stared at his companion in his arms. Telling the story made him paranoid, eyes darting from one corner of the cave to another, but it did seem to help. The truth was out; no secrets appeared to be held in that thin interior.

"Master forgives me?" Sméagol finally asked, after a long and cold silence. Frodo didn't answer for several minutes, but then shook his head strongly. "No," he said, and Sméagol's heart nearly stopped. "Because you didn't do it." And then he felt the Ring inside his shirt, and his eyes narrowed.

"None of this is your fault. Gollum did this, and he's gone now, isn't he?" he asked, and gazed back. Sméagol swallowed, then curtly nodded. "Never, ever, come back." With another hug, eyes moist, Frodo swallowed as well. Kissing him gently on the forehead, he smiled. "Sam…?" he asked, hoping for a good response from his friend.

"I'll give him a chance," Sam responded. "If that ol' Gollum is gone, like you say, then…then I suppose…." Trailing off, he looked at the pale and scrawny being, a being who was slowly redeeming himself. He wasn't lying; Sam could feel it in the air, he could see it in his eyes.

"Then…I suppose we can work this out. We can try." Frodo nodded at his friend. Well said.

"Now," said Frodo, breaking the ice. "Let's look at those teeth again."Bringing him closer to the firelight, Sam and Frodo began to look thoroughly into his mouth. Indeed, new molars and incisors were beginning to spring up through his gums.

Some of the old ones had been knocked loose by the fall, and were beginning to rock back and forth and come out. Sam helped dislodge one by doing just that. With a little bit of pain, it popped out of its unhealthy spot in Sméagol's gums. Their patient closed his eyes hard as it was delicately extracted. Blood worked its way out of the cavity and into his mouth. When out, Sam held the tooth to the fire light to study it. It was filed to a point, but suspiciously had not a single cavity. It looked discolored and rotten, however.

A little distraught by its appearance, Sam flung it into the fire in disgust. He checked theothers, but that was all. Frodo brought over some water and handed it to him so that he might wash out his bloody mouth. Sméagol then spit out the blood, coughing slightly.

"They feel better now…" he remarked.

Wiping some drool from his chin, Sméagol sat back on his haunches with the other two, a look of embarrassment in his eyes. Frodo smiled back. "Good! Just in time to eat, then!" Sméagol perked up, and a happy light came to his eyes. "Eat! Sméagol is hungry!" And as he said that, he crawled on over and beside his master.

"Indeed, I would imagine," Frodo responded, staring openly at his exposed ribcage. Sméagol looked back at Sam to reply, and gave him his newly altered smile.

"Yes, Sméagol is always hungry...." He was still referring to himself in the third person. That particular habit, it seemed, hadn't gone away.

"Always?" Sam repeated, a bit amazed.

Sméagol nodded in confirmation, smile fading just a bit. Then he looked back to Frodo.

"Nice fishes?"

Frodo looked past him to Sam, who sighed, then nodded. He had walked towards the fishing pool to see if he could grab a few, but they all scattered before he could even try, all making their way to the deep end where it was safe. He had hoped Sméagol wouldwake up soon and fish for them, and now he had the opportunity to ask. The frying pan had been sizzling hot water for hours now, and he was anxious to get some real food in his stomach.

"Yes, fish. But you need to catch them. Do you mind?"

Sméagol looked back to him in response. "Sméagol try, where is sweet, juicy fishes?" he asked in a rather excited tone. Sam pointed to the pool, and watched as Sméagol got up and slowly and awkwardly crawled into the said direction. Curious, both hobbits followed to watch the spectacle. But it was the fatter hobbit who seemed to pay special attention.

Sméagol sidled up to the edge of the pool, peering down into the clear yet deep body of water. His right hand raised, slowly, meticulously, and stayed elevated above the surface for several minutes. Then it became a blur as it dipped into the water, and he lurched forward up to his shoulder. He was careful to keep his head up and not ruin the recent bathing job, however. He was still partially wrapped in the blanket, his locks of hair still moist and drying.

Then he pulled back almost just as fast, and in his hand was a small trout. It squirmed in his grasp and tried desperately to escape. Sméagol was an expert at this, however, and carefully gripped tighter to prevent such a thing. Before either Frodo or Sam could compliment him, he took the fish and whacked it heavily upon the nearby rock. Both hobbits flinched from the brutality. but accepted the odd method of incapacitating their meal.

He looked about ready to bite into it, but instead handed it to the unwilling Sam standing next to him. "One fissssh," he hissed, and he went back to his duty. Sam was amazed that he was able to pull four more 'juicy fish' from the cavern pool before they became wise and retreated to the bottom. Sméagol sighed, hoping for enough for a satisfying dinner.

"I can help, I suppose…" Sam said, kneeling down beside him. Sméagol looked up in surprise, not having expected that in the least. His gaze returned to his prey.

"Nice hobbit know how to fish?" he asked kindly. With a frown, Sam shook his head. "Can't say I do, at least your way." Sméagol cocked his head to the side. "Kind Sméagol shows. Watch…" And he proceeded to try and catch a fish that strayed closer to the top. Watching closely, Sam took note on how he expertly timed the fish's retreat to his grab. He, as always, caught the slimy animal and managed to kill it upon the rocks.

"Sam try, we'll scare them," he said happily, and he walked to the opposite end, sticking his hand down deep and scattering them more towards the surface. Sam bit his lip and reached down deep into the water, deathly afraid of falling in, and he almost did. He forgot about his sleeve, and got it all wet. A fish was in his grasp, however, but it slipped out as he tried to haul it out of the water. He groaned in disappointment and anger. Sméagol chuckled a bit. "Not so easy, is it?" he asked. "Try again!" And so Sam, discouraged but not a quitter, rolled up his sleeves and did just that. He missed, then again, and then finally got one.

With a look of slight apprehension, he took out a small pan fish from the water. "Kills it!" Sméagol cried urgently. "Or it'll get away!" Taking Sméagol's advice, albeit reluctantly, Sam dashed it on the ground and managed to get fish blood all over his hands, but the deed was done. He continued until twelve fish had been caught. The wiry being danced the same way he had when he gave the conies to Frodo, albeit more

restrained and jerkily, careful of his injuries, and then sat before his fatter friend. "…Did it, did it! Smart hobbit, clever hobbit!" Washing his hands off in the water, Sam felt a new appreciation for Sméagol. It wasn't easy, and to imagine, he had to do that all day, every day of his life. He looked up, and Frodo smiled at him. "Why Sam, I think Sméagol just taught you how to fish!" And Sam had to smile back when he thought of it. Part of his fear of water had been nixed, and he didn't even know it. Sméagol actually taught him something, gave him something, and didn't ask for anything back.

Indeed, he had.


	14. Chapter 14

Sméagol was filled with a new light, the darkness of Gollum nearly gone. Being cared for was beginning to give a new purpose to his existence. But Gollum still lingered, and would continue to until the Ring was destroyed. The memory of Déagol still existed, and would never disappear. But at least now he accepted it. He knew it wasn't entirely his fault. Master said so, and even Sam agreed. They were the ultimate authority, now that his previously domineering personality had gone into submission. His weakened bones still ached, as they were still in the early stages of healing. Not being perfectly aligned didn't help matters either. Also, the two hobbits were not the swiftest in cleaning the wounds. Bacteria got in, and several of the gouges and cuts were infected.

Although not serious enough for alarm, it hurt when he moved, and did so sparingly. Wincing at brushing a cut on his leg, he sat down next to the fire. The fire no longer scared him, as it had no reason to. He knew full well it wasn't the evil flame of Mordor, despite its resemblance to its red glowing light. He sat with his knees drawn up to his chest and arms around them, the blankets and towels swathed around him loosely. His dark brown hair, for one reason or another, loved the washing it had just received. He noticed, on a piece that hung over his eyes, that it formed a wave-like and loosened curl all the way down.

He gently reached out and felt along the softness, and that was what surprised him; it felt soft for once. Usually when he felt the hair brush against his shoulders, he remembered its bristliness and hardness. Swimming around in the water didn't help much. To think, all it had taken was some soap. Sméagol stretched his flattened feet a bit, again marveling at how well he felt. But he was a tad cold, he noticed now, and shivered a bit,pulling the blanket a smidgeon tighter around him.

His wounds were still open, though, and just as Sam finished fishing, he pulled the effectively washed bandages from the water. Frodo sat down and began to rub out the blood stains, and applied a bit of soap to each, as he knew from experience that it seemed to stave off the wounds 'getting bad', or what we would know as infected.

Laying them on the rock to dry, Frodo yawned, then proceeded to help Sam carry some of the fish back to the fire. Setting them into a small pile, the two sat down beside the fire ring. They sat closer to Sméagol this time, one on each side. Sméagol watched as the fatter Sam-hobbit leaned unexpectedly close to him as he fiddled with the skillet a bit.

His back faced him, clothes rubbing up against his pale and discolored skin.

"He would never have done that…before," Sméagol thought to himself. It comforted him greatly, knowing that the two were beginning to trust and respect him. Frodo sat to his left, and gently poked Sméagol to get his attention. "I… know you like your fish raw, Sméagol," he began, "but I really need you to eat it cooked, all right? It's better for you…"

Frodo watched as Sméagol shook in revulsion. "I hates cooking…" he responded, shaking his head.

Sam shot him a slightly dirty look, but none too serious. "Now just why is that?" he asked, miffed, but also a bit curious. Looking up to the sandy-haired companion, Sméagol searched for an appropriate answer.

He realized now that he had been rather rude the last time he informed him. He smiled inwardly at the memory. 'Stupid fat hobbit', that was rather amusing. He remembered when he was a child, one of his earliest memories. Fascinated by the cooking process, he had got close to a frying skillet his grandma was using. The handle was sticking out from the fire, his grandma facing the opposite direction. Watching the fish sizzle and pop, taking a long whiff. It looked so good, and he leaned in to grab the fishy, assuming it was good and ready to eat.

But the result was not pretty. Grease burned his fingers and face horribly, and he cried out and fell back. It stung, the effected skin growing white and scarred. His grandmother freaked, getting down to her knees and asking if he was okay. Then she hit him hard before he could reply. She hated it when he did stupid, curious things like that. He did things like that all too often, unfortunately.

Crying, he was told to go to the bathroom and bandage himself. He would be punished,not receiving dinner that evening. Of course, being a hobbit, it wouldn't be long before the next meal. Still, he went hungry, as he was so upset with himself, he didn't feel he deserved anything to eat.

He still ate cooked things, but stayed well away from the process itself for many years. Sometimes he tried food raw, but found it not as satisfying as its seasoned counterpart. When he went into the Misty Mountains, he did try to cook at first, but found the materials too hard to come by. He instead ate his prey raw, and found no plant life deep underground.

Growing used to the taste, he had reveled in it, savoring the sweet and juicy tenderness that was the fish, bat, or occasional goblin. The idea of returning to what he had came to know as 'spoiling' revolted him if anything. He licked his teeth again, deciding. "If master wants us to…" he sighed, and crouched with a bit of irritation. New terrors of the skillet spiting at him crowded his thoughts, but he held his ground. Frodo smiled; at least he would try.

Sam leaned back, appeared to think for a moment, and then reached around to grab a fish. Sméagol seemed to look in his direction, and Sam knew it had to be torture to see perfectly good food go to 'waste'. Reaching to his other side, he grabbed a small knife perfect for just this occasion: a fish-fillet knife he was now incredibly glad he had brought.

Frodo watched as Sam started by chopping the head off. Sméagol winced a bit; he'd never seen it done that way in years. Sam continued down the body, splitting it in half and removing the edible parts. Then he took the fillet and threw it into the skillet. It was obvious that this pleased Sam; this was where he thrived. Taking out a spatula, he moved the tender piece of fish flesh around. It sizzled in the grease and its own juices, and Sam added some spices that he had collected as Sméagol had been sleeping. This invoked a strange look from Sméagol, but he held back. 'For Master…' he thought to himself.

More fish, all that he could make fit, were piled onto the pan. As they were turned over and over, Frodo salivated for the taste of a real meal. It appealed to him more than lembas, which now burned him inside and out.

"Add… those…" he heard Sméagol say from beside him. He was pointing to some plants that lay to Sam's side. He had laid them out when deciding what to grab, but had never intended to use them.

"Those…?" Sam asked with surprise, a look of both shock and confusion in his eyes. "But… those won't taste good with fish, though." Frodo nearly broke out laughing when he realized Sméagol was giving Sam cooking advice now. A smile forming on his face, he looked back at the former Ring-bearer.

"I…I remember. Back in the long, long ago. Grandma would take those from beside the river. She cut them up, scraped them, then fried them with the fish. She said it was a family secret." Then he look suddenly saddened. "But it doesn't matter now…"

Frodo realized what he was talking about. The Stoor clan had left the Gladden fields andintermarried with the families of Buckland, his ancestors. He had no idea if any of his close family had made the move, if any of his genes had been passed on. There was still so little they knew about him.

"Well…" said Sam with a sigh. "I suppose I can try it." And with that, he did as Sméagol asked, cutting up the strange brown plant on the rocks, then scraping it off and grinding it with a stone. He sprinkled it onto the fish, worried that the taste would be ruined.

Frodo went and gathered the plates and eating utensils. He even got some for Sméagol, even though he knew he would most likely eat with his hands. Sam had even had the sense to bring napkins on such a trip.

Holding out his plate, Frodo received the cooked fish filet. Caught by Sméagol, cooked by Sam, but in truth, they had helped one another. Sméagol timidly held out his plate, and was rewarded with the least cooked of the three fillets. He brought it close to him, studying it with great intensity.

Sam got himself one, sitting down and ready to eat. Both, however, were eager to see Sméagol's reaction. Frodo watched with great intensity as he actually licked the fish, drawing the tongue back into his mouth and tasting the spices. He shook, the taste obviously overwhelming, face squashing up to show his surprise.

"Tastes just like it! I don't know how I remember, but…." And he shook his head in confusion.

Frodo sidled up beside him, eager to assist. "Do you know how to use a knife and fork, Sméagol?"

He gazed in his master's direction. "Yes… but…." And he breathed loudly. "It has been a long time."

"Here, watch me." And Frodo demonstrated by sticking his own juicy fish with a fork and cutting it cleanly with his knife. He shoved it into his mouth, marveling at its rich texture. The added ingredient from Sméagol's advice gave the fillet an extra zing that rivaled any other. Frodo nodded at Sam, emphasizing that it was indeed delicious.

Finally, albeit timidly, Sam cut and took a bite, chewing slowly and carefully, as it was still hot. He was amazed at the amount of flavor the plant had brought out; his initial suspicions had been wrong.

Nodding back to Frodo, he smiled sheepishly. "Thanks for the advice, Sméagol. Your grandma knew what she was doing."

Sméagol smiled back broadly, showing every one of his pointy teeth. Then he turned happily back to his food, only to make a cross face. "Now, come on," Frodo urged. "If you eat it raw, it will make you even sicker. Your stomach is very fragile right now." That seemed to convince Sméagol, and so he struggled a bit with the knife and fork. After tearing the fish up a considerable deal, he managed to get a piece in his mouth. Chewing swiftly as to not taste it, he downed it before it was ready, nearly choking. His next bit was slower, and he got a ounce of flavor in return. It dazzled his taste buds, shocking himout of the normal and bland fish that had become exciting to him only with time.

He ate three more pieces slowly, testing the grounds of this newfound territory. Frodo looked over to Sam again; they shared an amused and satisfied glance. Finally, Sméagol simply took the remaining half and stuck it into his mouth. After a few more chews, it was downed.

"Well?" Sam asked, hopeful. Sméagol cocked his head in return.

"Good." And that was all he was willing to admit.

"Well, I think it's great," Sam replied gruffly. "What about you, Mr. Frodo?"

Finishing his last bite, Frodo set the fork and plate down beside the skillet. "Excellent as always, Sam. Let's get some more."

And so the three ate the remaining fish. Sméagol ate more than all of them together. When they each got one, he had three. They ran out soon, and although Sméagol was still hungry, they maintained that he would have to wait until tomorrow. He received some cool and refreshing water, however.

Yawning openly, Frodo looked towards the healing Sméagol. "Ready to go back to bed?" he asked both the other hobbits. Sam put away his pots and agreed, stomach full and satisfied, still in disbelief of their patient's sudden wolfing down of 'hobbit food'. Sam smiled; anyone who would eat his food like that earned a certain level of respect from him. He wearily looked for a spot to sleep, laying down a soft blanket and retrieving the pillow Sméagol had been using. Then he watched as Frodo laid down his things next to his own. His thoughts drifted; if he was using both pillows, then where would their injured companion sleep?

Then Frodo bent down next to Sméagol and whispered something in his ear. Nervously, he crept on over with his master, giving Sam a strange look; he knew what was going on. At first Sam felt like saying something about his master's decision. And yet he knew he would never win in an argument, especially when Sméagol was involved as the reason. Besides, he had earned a certain level of trust from the creature. He understood that they had a limited supply of blankets and pillows, and going without was out of the question; it was chilly, and he might grow even sicker.

He watched as Sméagol slowly crawled past Frodo, looking nervous as all hell, lookingfrom side to side, then moving towards Sam. Each step was like a barrier being he plopped down beside the fatter hobbit, back to him, a towel still wrapped snuglyaround his thin waist. His head lay on the edge of Frodo's pillow, careful to leave enoughroom for his breath a bit, Samwise tried not to be uneasy. He calmed himself, knowing hehad been even closer to him mere hours earlier. It seemed like years ago, and yet he couldstill taste him in his mouth, despite the flavorful fish. With a sigh, he relaxed, he wasfighting a losing battle. Frodo stepped out, presumably to go to the bathroom, and returned moments later. There was a hissing as the fire was put out.

Frodo lay down next to Sméagol. The scene would have looked quite odd to the casualobserver. Three odd friends who were bonded by a similar experience. So different, yet alike in more ways then they had the blankets over themselves, they stretched them as long as possible to get themselves all covered. Their feet ended up being shortchanged, however. If you had been to look at the exposed feet, you would have noticed that Sméagol's appeared to be about the same size as the others', and that small hairs were beginning to reemerge along the top.

Sam breathed in Sméagol's scent, smelling mostly soap now. His old smell lingered faintly, which reminded Sam of toiling in his garden at home. As he stared at the back of Sméagol's mostly bald head, he couldn't help but notice new hairs starting out. He'd never seen that before. He got a few inches closer; was he really getting better, in that sense? That he was beginning to… to what?


	15. Chapter 15

He was a hobbit; it now seemed all too obvious to Sam. Sméagol had never come out and said it, only that his last name was 'Stoor'. A few other references clued Sam in, like his referring to eating second breakfast, although it had never hit him like it did now. Sméagol was resembling a normal, healthy hobbit more and more as time wore on.

"Goodnight, hobbitses…" was heard from beside him, and then a yawn. This shocked even Sam, who took a few moments to respond. "Goodnight…" he said in a rather surprised tone.

"Goodnight Sam, Sméagol." Frodo smiled at both his companions. "'Night Mr. Frodo," Sam replied gruffly as he turned over, feeling the warmth of the former Gollum next to him. It was oddly comforting in the chilled night air.

They didn't sleep long; actually, it would be more accurate to say that Frodo didn't fall asleep. He was too eager, restless. He sighed, feeling the breath of Sméagol on his neck. Feeling much better, he lay back down on the soft blanket beneath him. He scrunched his feet up into the blanket, and still didn't find himself satisfied. He lay for a moment more, staring up at the blackness of the ceiling. Considering the day's events, his thought sturned to Sméagol.

Turning his head, Frodo stared at him as he slept, his face the very description of all that was peaceful. It looked as though a horrible burden had been lifted from his soul. He slept on his back, face towards the ceiling, his head slightly tilted in Frodo's direction.

The left arm was on his chest, the uninjured right to his side. The wounds had closed, though the scabs were large and disgusting. But that face conveyed so much. The pain he'd been through, the horrid memories, and now, the kindness shown to him by his two best friends.

Frodo's heart quivered with a sudden desire to touch him again. With a trembling hand, he reached out and stroked his cheek. Sméagol moved a bit in his sleep in response. His closed eyes moved in rapid eye movements. He was dreaming.

Closer, he had to get closer. Leaning over, Frodo wrapped his arms around the lithe figure, kissing him gently up and down. He reveled in being so close to him, and now that he was clean, he emanated a sort of 'rebirth', almost as though he were born again. A child in an adult, wounded, and unhealthy body.

Sméagol woke gently, yawning and staring at his master in curiosity. "Master can't sleep?" he asked, eyes shining.

"Shhh…" Frodo responded, tenderly rubbing his face, and he brought him closer, Sméagol's face now by Frodo's chest. "Does everything still hurt?" he asked, curious.

Sméagol nodded slowly, swallowing.

"Well, that's fine. Because I'm here, remember?" And Frodo held him close, hugging him gently. Then he released the poor hobbit and gave him a kiss on the forehead. "No, Sméagol, I can't sleep. But with you next to me, I might be able to. Let's talk a bit, first. Bilbo told me you were great at riddle games. Tell me one."

Smirking a bit, he tried to recall one from his early childhood, one of his own creation. He always had the best because he had so much source material.

"What can change, yet never fail, last forever, or grow stale?"

Frodo thought for a moment, but his mind was too tired to think up anything plausible.

"Elves, or time, maybe?"

Sméagol shook his head, then giggled softly. "It's love. Sometimes it lasts forever, others, was never meant to be."

Frodo was struck down by this revelation. "Of course," he replied, awestruck. "Thank you, Sméagol. That was lovely." He smiled warmly again, snuggling the pillow and inhaling its imbedded aroma.

"Sméagol knew love," Sméagol began, breaking the silence. "I had family. They did care about me, I just never felt it, I suppose. I always ran away, sometimes for days at a time." A long quiet filled the air, and he bit his lip in deep thought.

"And there wasn't a time when I thought of not coming home. I tried to stay away as long as possible. But when I did come home, tired, sleepy, I found they had worried about me.

They hugged me, kissed me, and even fed me." Sméagol laughed happily a bit at the memory, then stopped and looked back at his listening master.

"But I was soon forgotten. Ignored. My love would remain longer then theirs. There were so many of us, I had thirteen brothers and seven sisters. They say my mother was a whore, but that all my siblings were still her husband's. My father, a drifter, he left as soon as he came. They say he was from the other Stoor clan over the mountains. We were all supposed to hate them, because my ancestors left them over some dispute and started a Shire along the Gladden. I was the only offspring not born of her marriage."

Sméagol himself was amazed that he remembered such comments made by his gabby and angry grandmother. She never had liked her daughter's habits, what with her profession and all, and had liked her even less after she slept with someone from out of the Shire. Sméagol was still of the Stoor breed, albeit of a farther strain. He had never known his father, and his mother only cared for him until he was eight. She left one day for

unknown reasons; it was said perhaps to see more of the world. Others said she was exiled. She never returned.

"Mother left me. Left us, all of us. We all lived with grandmother, she was the head of the clan. I loved her, she took care of me, after all. But she never seemed to show it. Nobody seemed to show it. Nobody seemed to care, or try, to love me." Frodo lay, feeling alone despite the company. His mind numbed as he tried to comprehend Sméagol's torment.

"I'm sorry... I know you have suffered. I can never understand your pain, as no one truly can feel what you have." Frodo tried to withhold his sadness, barely succeeding. Sméagol lay in silence, tears once again beginning to well up in the bottom of his eyelids.

Then another all-too-realistic question was asked.

"Is he… gone? I mean, really gone?"

Sméagol looked confused at first, and then a sudden bolt of realization struck, and he nodded. "Sméagol is here, here to stay, I hope." He avoided his master's gaze.

Frodo nodded, and smiled faintly. "Good." And he lay down with his face towards Sméagol, who now lay facing him.

"Get some sleep master, it's good for you…" Sméagol said, smiling silently. "Sweet dreams, Sméagol," he replied, and gently took his uninjured hand into his grasp.

Now he slept, finally; since had gotten the ring he had never been able to rest well. But the two bonded ring bearers managed to fall into the kingdom of dreams, no matter how brief their time there might be.

Sméagol slept late, not waking until well into the afternoon. And for the first time, he was the first one up. He woke still tired and groggy, hair frizzy and even more unkempt then before. He had to go to the bathroom, but he didn't want to wake the other two, who were still sleeping well next to him. Sam had turned in his sleep, towards him. He smiled a bit at that.

A leaf had found its way into his fatter friend's sandy, brownish-blonde hair, and Sméagol gently removed it, careful not to awaken his slumber, which now included a bit of snoring as well. He turned to look at Frodo, whose eyes were moving rapidly under his lids. He was still in the position he had been in last night; he hadn't moved.

Sméagol winced a bit as he shifted positions, mending bones still soft and fragile. He turned his head and noticed the dry bandages on the rocks, and made a mental note to go over there when he came back. He started to crawl out from under the covers, carefully so as to not disturb his two sleeping companions. Always good at creeping, he managed it perfectly.

Slinking outside, he did his business, but didn't return right away. It was rather beautiful out there. A brown bird with black ticking landed close to him; it was rather large and would make a substantial meal for all of them. Sméagol licked his lips in anticipation; this would be sure to please the hobbits.

He pounced eagerly, stomach still calling out for food. The Ring had suppressed his hunger, rather like a diet drug. Gollum had kept him fed, as Sméagol had no desire to eat. But he ate only what he needed; sometimes he went days without food. But ever since Gollum had left, it had come back with a vengeance. Now he was always hungry, his body trying to replenish itself after years of malnutrition and deprivation. He held down the bird, then snapped her neck. Picking the limp body up in his mouth, he trotted eagerly back into the cavern. He set it down near the fire ring, then licked his lips as he considered eating it.

Spitting out a few feathers, he sat down on his haunches and thought. He remembered the last time he had brought them food, Sam hadn't been all that pleased. What did he say he liked? Taters? He wondered if there were any around here, and if he could recognize any if he saw them.

He tried to recall his memory, but remembered nothing. His family had never been fond of that stuff. Most of their food and ingredients had come from either the river or anything close to it. But he had to get them something else, he figured. Maybe master would eat more if he did.

There was a river that flowed into the cave; part of it had to be outside. Quietly, he scurried out of the cavern entrance, albeit in an awkward and slow manner, careful so as not to knock any of his soft bones. He crawled to the back of the cavern, finding a hole the water flowed into. But as he looked backward, he saw where it originated; it stretched for miles. Along it grew various plants of all types. His heart leaped and stopped all at the same moment when he saw one in particular growing in abundance. Yellow Flag.

Memories flooded back; he would go down and pick various plants all the time. Sometimes there would be interesting bugs in them, and he would take them and put them in a jar. At times they would die, and he would feel horrible all day. He stopped when he found out that they never lived long.

The reminiscing made him stutter and shake. He had to start thinking in the present if hewas going to get anything done. Reaching forward, he grabbed several roots and shoots and as many flowers as he could, and then he grabbed a few mushrooms. He knew these were edible, and not deadly.

He collected these all in one arm, and then even more slowly than before, made his way back. The drippy cave was actually beginning to irritate Sméagol; he preferred to be back outside. This surprised him, as he had preferred the cavern only days before. The Sun was becoming more and more likable by the day.

Sméagol sat the materials down by the dead bird. The hobbits had shifted positions a bit while he was gone. Frodo now slept on his back, and Sam sprawled out his arms to where he was formally sleeping. Sméagol felt he should start dressing the bird. After all, Sam didn't like to eat it like he did. Remembering how to do it from his youth, he took one of Sam's knives, the largest, and chopped off the head. He never ate that anyway. Then he decided the legs were useless as well, but chewed those off instead, spitting them into the fire pit. He slit the creature's skin down the breast, then cut the sinew and tissues that connected the meat to the skin.

Soon, the thin bird skin was gone, thrown into the fire ring. He then separated the good flesh from the bone, crawling over and throwing it away. Now he had to take the 'good' meat from the junk meat, but he knew it would be wasteful to discard it. So instead he began to feast on the flesh he knew Sam would hate: Intestines, liver, even the heart. The texture tasted somewhat different this time, though. He could only stand about half of it, and cut the rest away with a knife.

He questioned himself as to why it now tasted rather disgusting to him, the raw meat. Was it Gollum's departure? Licking his lips, then wiping them with his arm, he sat and thought for a while, clutching the bird in his right hand. A lone tear ran down his left cheek as recollections of memories continued to swim back.


	16. Chapter 16

Home, he thought of home. He would go hunting and gathering, and brought back everything from mushrooms to, at best, a deer. Gutting and cleaning them, he brought them back to the table at dinner time. But they were never grateful; they considered it merely a job that had to be done. He would eat, then leave, feeling a sense of irritation. But still, there were positive things he had relished. His comfy bed that always managed to smell good despite his filthy state when he lay down. The way the orange and red sunlight would filter through the windows at dusk. Or how the crickets and frogs would chirp in the night air in the woods and river next to his hobbit hole. There was even a huge tree with enormous roots and branches that made a perfect napping spot.

Even his family was pleasant and accepting from time to time. They always threw him marvelous birthday parties and bought him the best presents they could afford. It had been a long Stoor tradition to do so. Whenever somebody needed a snake out of their yard, or roots dug out from somebody's garden, they called on Sméagol. Those were the things he could scarcely remember, as they were rare, pleasant and filled with love.

Home, he wanted to go home so bad. He wanted to eat his grandmother's cooking again. To lie half-naked in his bed with the curtains shut around noon. Déagol might come out with him later and go hunt for more lizards to put in jars and study. He'd let them go later; he always wanted everyone to be free. He wanted everyone to go home...

"I can never go home…" he said in a whisper.

He put the bird down, and the realization hit him like a ton of bricks. He had never considered it before, but his family was dead, his home destroyed by time. After Bilbo had taken The Ring, he had left his home in the Misty Mountains. One could say he traveled all over Middle-Earth in search of it, even venturing near Mordor to see if the Dark Lord might have taken it.

But he had never gone to the Gladden Fields. His Sméagol side had tried to, but a sad and desperate feeling crept across his mind. The combination of the traumatizing memories and Gollum's oppression kept him far away.

He took one look at it from the river, noticed that the beautiful water lilies still remained, then slunk on. Now, now it became an all too true realization. It all had to be gone, he knew it. He began to cry, loudly even. Weeping hard enough that Frodo was stirred from his sleep.

"Sméagol, what's wrong?" his master asked. Sméagol looked up, then after a moment of silence, burst into tears again. Frodo rushed over and wrapped his arms around the sobbing hobbit. Leaning into his chest, Sméagol accepted the comfort whole-heartedly for the first time. As Frodo hugged him closely back, he cried into his dirtied shirt.

"I can never go home…" he repeated. Frodo rubbed his back tenderly, trying desperately to calm him. But in the end, he thought it best for Sméagol to get it all out. Master's embrace felt good, warm, and Sméagol took it all in, every bit of it. "Thank you…" he breathed. "Thank you for helping me… when no one else would…."

Frodo's body relaxed even more, and allowed Sméagol to crawl into his lap, his wiry body still lightweight and unhealthy. And so he cried until he felt he had no more tears left, and lay shivering in his master's arms, breathing heavily, heart beating low and sadly.

Leaning forward, Frodo gently took his face and guided it to look at him. They looked deep into one another's eyes, analyzing one another's troubled souls.

"We are not so different... you know." Frodo swallowed back the tears that formed. He leaned in and kissed Sméagol on the forehead, then tenderly on the lips. It was swift, however, as the raw flesh made them taste rather disgusting. "Once this is all over… I'll take you home with me… to the Shire. I know… it can never replace what you had, Sméagol, but there will be people there who will accept you, care about you, even if it's just me."

Sniffling, Sméagol breathed out slowly. "Really? Master would do that for me?"

"…I sure would."

Sméagol considered that; it was a grand offer. It would not be the same, but it was the closest he would ever come. He would take it. Lifting away from Frodo, he smiled and wiped away his tears. "Master hungry?" He sniffed again. "Sméagol brought food! Even nassssty plants."

Smiling a bit, Frodo had to shake his head.

"I'm sorry, I'm just not hungry. Last night I ate more then I could stand. Usually I can eat a lot more than that. Lately, though..."

And he sighed as he considered how he should word his gradual health decline, and decided against it.

"But, I'm sure Sam would be." Frodo nodded in his direction. This sent a chill down Sméagol's spine. "Master… not hungry?" he repeated. But as Frodo gave him an odd look, he swallowed and looked down. "Is master…ever hungry?"

Frodo shut his jaws, and eyed Sméagol strangely. "No, I… I suppose I'm not."

"Does master, hear voices?" And this stopped Frodo cold, and he clutched the Ring that was apparent beneath his clothing. Fingering it gently, he continued to stare blankly at his companion.

"…Yes."

Sméagol shuddered, and looked at his master with a hopeless gaze. "It's happening to me, isn't it?" Frodo then asked. Sméagol didn't respond at first, mouth opening but no words coming out. He then closed his eyes and looked away.

"Just be glad, Master, it hasn't taken you yet."

It was the 'yet' that seemed to worry and distress Frodo the most. He moved his hand to his mouth, biting his knuckle and covering his lips. Sméagol noticed this, another shiver ripping through his body. He offered his uninjured hand.

"Sméagol is here...." He repeated a similar statement made by his master earlier. Frodo looked at his outstretched palm, swallowed hard, and shed a withheld tear. He took

Sméagol's hand, clasping both hands around it, then gently lifting it towards his mouth, kissing it.

"And so am I, still," he responded. They lay against one another for over an hour, until time grew stale for both of them. The smell from the dead bird was beginning to sicken Frodo. Luckily, Sméagol let go first, beginning to grow uncomfortable as Sam stirred in his sleep.

"Thank you for gathering such lovely food, Sméagol," Frodo said as he began to rummage through the things he had gathered. "Mushrooms!" he gasped, and right away he began to eat away at the white-colored fungi, his hunger suddenly returning.

Sméagol tilted his head, smirking a bit. "What do nasssty mushrooms taste like? Nice juicy fishes?" he asked as he picked one up himself.

Frodo, whose mouth was still full, shook his head in amusement. "No…." He took the mushroom from Sméagol's hands and rolled it around in his, looking at it. "But it is good, trust me. Just… pretend it's a fish." And he handed it back. The atmosphere suddenly went quiet as Sméagol looked at the food, face full of concentration. Then he took a hearty, yet timid bite.

It was obvious he wasn't the biggest fan of it, a look of quiet disgust on his face. But he didn't want to displease his master, and so ate it all as fast as he could. Licking his lips, he smiled a bit at Frodo.

"Doesn't taste like a fish…." Then they both shared a loud laugh, stirring Sam a bit more. Sam stretched as he awoke, well rested and refreshed for the first time in a long while. He glanced to the left, and was surprised to find both companions gone. At first his heart quivered in fear that something had happened to both of them. He gazed around the room, and was amazed to find the whole cave decorated with the occasional Yellow Flag iris. It was a rare flower back home in the Shire, and Sam almost died when he saw the beautiful and uncommon plant. Then he looked to his left and found a pot over a crackling fire.

They appeared to have left the food cooking and stepped out. This reassured Sam a bit,and he got up to look at the contents of the pot. Finely chopped bird meat floated about, mixed with various plants he didn't recognize. But it smelled divine, and he smiled as he caught a whiff. Then he heard something outside, muffled, scuffling sounds. He rose to his feet, both curious and worried. He moved outside, looking left and right for the source. Sam noticed that it came more from the left, and walked stealthily down to investigate. What he saw stopped him in his tracks. Beneath the brush, Sméagol lay with Frodo. They appeared to almost be asleep, each one intimate and close. Frodo moved his arms around him tighter. His master's legs were wrapped around his slender form, keeping them together. It was obvious what was going on, as Frodo shivered from penetration as he was pulled closer. Frodo's clothes were off, and the simple towel that had obscured Sméagol's body had been unraveled. Nothing was really seen however, as the bush hid anything from view. They both moaned softly, and it was here that Sam noticed something physically different

about Sméagol. He was fatter, face gentler and without its previous harshness. His hair had grown thicker by at least a few strands in his sleep. And when he pulled a bit from Frodo, he flashed his teeth, and he had already grown more. Even his skin had darkened a shade, though he still remained paler then normal.

He really was getting better.

Sam reacted strangely, swallowing hard and continuing to watch. He didn't know what to do; certainly, breaking them up was out of the question. Should he join them? He was tempted to, as he was growing aroused by the scene. But his stomach turned, mind dizzy with a strange sickness.

At crossroads, he wasn't sure which path to take. So he chose to return to the cavern to relax. Or so he thought. Sméagol purred as he nuzzled, a developing trait, gently kissing his friend as he lay with him. He sighed as he ceased his thrusting and simply rested on Frodo's bare chest. For a moment he just listened to his fellow Ring-bearer's heartbeat.

After some time, his stomach growled and he knew he needed to eat again. He had missed the feeling of hunger so much. Now it was back and in full force, his body weak with starvation from his entire long life. Kissing his master once more, and whispering in his ear, he collected his towel, then departed and crawled back into the cave.

He had told his companion to stay, as he was to return. But he found something just as interesting in the cavern that afternoon. He made his way stealthily back into the entrance, careful not to awake Sam. But as he tried, he noticed that he had done so already.

Sam was gone, and in response Sméagol tilted his head in curiosity. Then he heard anoise from behind him, but knew who he was. He felt hands come around his chest, holding him firmly. His face touched his, a whisper in his ear.

"So I see it feels better, eh?" he heard Sam say. His hands wandered down to the towel wrapped around Sméagol's waist, and it was gently unraveled. Sméagol didn't fight, and let it slip to the cavern floor.

"Hobbitses like Sméagol…" The former Ring-bearer said with a coy smile, and he shut his eyes and let himself slip into Sam's grasp. He felt kisses along his neck, heavy breathing across his face. Sam carried him to the makeshift bed they slept on for the night, gently placing him on his thin chest.

All Sméagol could recall, as he slowly shut his eyes, was the smooth rocking back and forth of Sam's hips. Falling back into pleasure, he gripped the cave floor with his flat fingers, knuckles white, new hair falling in front of his closed eyes.

Sméagol awoke shortly, and he cursed himself for having fallen asleep again. His body was lethargic and tired, however, from years of neglect and insomnia. He now fell into it whenever he lay down, dreams odd and whimsical, the blankets tangled in his legs. He then noticed just how sticky he was between his legs, and even down his lower back. Then he remembered why, and stretched out to ease the discomfort present where the deed took place, wincing a bit from his injured body. As before, Frodo and Sam now sat around the fire. This time, however, they were in a strange silence. It was obvious they had just washed off, water dripped from their naked bodies. The remaining towels draped around them were their only cover.

Sméagol realized then that his bandages had been put back on, and that he now felt more comfortable with the tightly cinched cloth back. He watched the two hobbits for a while, before sitting up to accompany them. Sam jerked his head in his direction, and gave him a weak acknowledgement as he crawled awkwardly over on his stiffened limbs.

Sitting down in between them, Sméagol gazed down at his own hands, wringing them and noticing how the wear and tear had not grown worse. He shook his head lightly, then looked towards his master and cracked a smile.

Frodo smiled faintly back, hanging his head a bit. Why were they shying away from him?

Were they ashamed? Sméagol swallowed hard. Of course, why not? It wasn't the kind of thing he had expected from them mere weeks before. He admitted he liked the feelings, strange and sometimes painful as they were. Now he felt embarrassed, and began to blush as he rubbed his thighs together, huddling close to himself as he watched the fire.

He didn't feel as though he deserved love, after all he'd done. He had never felt himself to be the most attractive of hobbits, before or after the Ring came into his long and tragic existence. He had never looked into a mirror since that day, and in the darkness he could never see his own reflection in the water. It wasn't until he left the Misty Mountains that he ever caught a glimpse.

That was all he ever looked upon, a glimpse, never daring to study it even closer. The mental image of himself was anything but flattering. Gollum never let him dwell on appearance, however. He convinced Sméagol that he was handsome, more than any other hobbit. It kept him from getting a good look at himself in the water. Or, sometimes,

Gollum would say the opposite just to bring down his already shattered spirit.

"You're disgusting, you know it," he thought; hugging himself, he inconspicuously tried to hide his face. "They are ashamed of themselves for what they did, and so am I. I know it."

Sam broke the silence. "Thanks for the food, Sméagol." And he withdrew a bowl, taking a large spoon and pouring himself one. "Those ingredients you brought were really quite good." He took a sip, then chewed the bird meat, closing his eyes and taking in the taste.

Sméagol smiled at him, tilting his head.

"I remember… way back when, we would eat nice birdses like that all the time. Duckses,

I think they are called. They like the water, yes they do." Then he licked his lips and looked at the pot.

Frodo grinned back at Sam, who nodded. "Would you like some, too? You did, after all, catch it." Sméagol looked towards the boiling pot and winced. Then his stomach gave in, and he nodded reluctantly.

"Yes… I'll have some." And he gratefully accepted the bowl Sam poured for him. He lapped it up with his tongue, tasting the sweet spices that Sam had added, as well as his own captured game.

"It is…good." He hesitated, eating the rest slowly, the heat from the cooking still generating vapors. Frodo got himself a bowl and joined in. As Sméagol sipped up the rest, he licked the bowl and asked for more. Sam hurriedly made it so.

Before either knew it, Sméagol had once again devoured the rest of the food. His stomach finally satisfied, he lay back and rubbed his belly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had that feeling. Licking his lips again, he peered at the two other hobbits, who shared a hearty laugh.

"Seems to me, Sméagol, you do enjoy my cooking," Sam said as he looked back in his direction. Both smirked wildly at one another, a general understanding met. Sam the cook, Sméagol the gatherer, and Frodo the bearer of the burden hardest to bear.

They sat there for a while, staring into the crackling embers. Sméagol let loose a heavy sigh that filled the room. He was growing bored, and certainly didn't feel like sleeping again. Rolling over on his back, he stared at the cavern ceiling, mind wandering, thoughts everywhere. "Let's go outside…"

Frodo and Sam looked at one another, then to Sméagol, a bit shocked. "But… Sméagol, I thought you hated the moon…?" Frodo questioned.

Even Sméagol didn't know why, but he had a craving like never before to see it again.

The idea no longer frightened him. He looked up into the fair face of his master. "I want to see the stars." And Frodo simply nodded in response.

They all walked out of the cave, Sméagol requiring assistance here and there. It was dark out, except for the pale and large full moon that hung high in the night sky. It no longer irritated his sensitive eyes; now it increased his vision if anything. The headaches he got from it were no more. And now he sat, and stared at the expanse that was space. The crickets and cicadas were singing to them, it seemed.

The three companions sat upon the rocks, gazing, thinking, air silent and atmosphere tense. Then Frodo watched as some fireflies blinked on and off, hovering around and above them. Sméagol giddily hopped about, attempting to catch a few. His broken limbs hindered him severely, but it couldn't stomp his playful spirit. He caught one gently in his hands, and covered it to prevent escape.

The other two laughed at the comical scene, Frodo a bit more than Sam. Then Sméagol brought the firefly over, sitting between them. Its light gleamed easily out through his pale, translucent skin. Then he pried his hands open a bit, looking inside. His smile turned to a frown as he noticed he had hurt the poor insect, its wings crumpled.

Frodo's face saddened as he noticed it, and he gently laid his hand on Sméagol's thin shoulder. "Sméagol, are you all right?" he asked.

Sméagol looked away from his master, staring into the rocks below him. "…I would try and capture some animals and put them in things like jars, chests, and cabinets. I just wanted them, that's all, I didn't want to hurt them. But they would get sick, injure themselves, or die from stress. I…"

His master pulled him closer to his side, soothing him as his eyes grew wet.

"…And I would go bury them when the river was low. When it rained, it became deep and they would be underwater, so I couldn't see were they were buried. I would try and forget, but…." And a single tear went down his cheek. "But I never could. Déagol is there too, with my rabbits, my kittens, my butterflies…." His words trailed off into the night.

Frodo began to cry silently; Sam bit his lip and tried to hold it in.

"…All under the water, all rotten, all dead." The last was said with rising tension in his voice. It had reminded them dreadfully of the Dead Marshes. Sméagol breathed out, and looked at his master.

He took Frodo's hand and put the now dead firefly in it, and gently closed his fingers over the failed body. Then he leaned into his shoulder, and the rest was silence.

They stayed for up to a week in that cave, and each minute was more unique and bonding then the next. Sméagol healed, in more ways than one. And while not completely fixed yet, they had to be going. An even more important quest lay ahead.

So when Frodo awoke the morning of their departure, he sighed as he stared at the recovering hobbit that lay next to him. His own right arm had gently wrapped around him as he slept. Sam had shifted to his stomach, like Sméagol had next to him. Frodo smirked a bit; Sam unwittingly had become more like the figure he once loathed then he would have liked to admit. Letting go of him, Frodo sat up and tried to think. He had gotten used to this dank cavern, with all the comforts of food, water, and even bathing.

They had discussed last night that they would leave in the morning. Sam agreed with

Frodo, and offered to help carry Sméagol. So the decision was made; they would leave tomorrow. Now Frodo was regretting it, however, and he sighed deeply as he watched the other two sleep soundly. His gaze drifted more towards Sméagol, and he gently moved a strand of hair away from his closed eyes. It had indeed grown thicker since his ordeal, the loose curls tightening and becoming more apparent.

He looked to be enjoying whatever dream he was locked in, a faint smile upon his lips.

His arms were underneath him, legs stretched out with feet crossing one another a bit.

The bumpy ridge that was his spine rose and fell as he breathed, slowly. The scars lining his back were permanent; those the hobbits could not heal.

And now he was beginning to form a potbelly, and even cinched his new elven cloth loincloth so that it covered more, now almost resembling a pair of pants with the legs cut off. Fat began to appear in places where only bones had been seen poking under the skin.

His ribcage was now less visible. He still coughed, but now only a few times a day. The combination of caring, comfort, good and healthy food, and 'therapy', as the three now called it, had done wonders for the poor wretch.

Frodo again began to trace his fingers around his ear, Sméagol stirring and sighed happily in his sleep. In his mind, the Ring-bearer fantasized about taking him home. He would sleep in his bed if he so wished. And so would Frodo, as he loved the sensation of holding his lithe body as he dozed. But it wasn't sexual; not even when they were engaged in 'therapy' was it ever about sex. It was the desire to be closer to his other half, a fellow tortured being.

He imagined sitting at the bar, drinking and laughing, telling his tales. And Sméagol would be right there beside him, fully back to his form before the Ring. He would tell stories, too, and he had many. The former Ring-bearer had traveled far and led a long, long life. Though most of it had been spent in a cave, he had still managed to go farther then any known hobbit before him.

They would garden with Sam; he saw it all, the Yellow Flag flowers and Marsh trees, the aroma of blossoms in the air. They would make a river that flowed right past Bag End, and they could fish every day if they so desired. Friends, they would all be friends.

Sméagol no longer needed therapy like he had received in the cave. But he did receive pats on the back, hugs, the occasional kiss on the forehead, and most important of all, care.

Someone cared.

Frodo smiled, then stroked Sméagol's head eagerly; their patient had scars that would most likely never go away. One was a massive scab on his forehead over the right eye; red and toughened skin covered a healing wound. Still, even now, Sam would wince at the sight of it, as he knew he had caused it.

They awakened hours later, as Frodo had not the heart to wake them yet. They ate one last cooked meal, that of rabbit stew courtesy of Sméagol and Sam. Stomachs full, they gathered up and started off.

Sméagol watched as Sam and Frodo bent down and helped him up. His arm was better then his leg, and so he was able to hold on to the two as they walked. In an upright stance, his back felt odd and uncomfortable.

Still, he hobbled on, instructing them in which direction they must travel. Sméagol knew the route well, and this time he would not lead them astray. A butterfly flew dizzily past, its blue wings dazzling in the sunlight.

He snatched it, taking Frodo slightly by surprise. With a look of utmost concentration,

Sméagol had caught the insect, carefully, expertly. Then he pulled his hand in and gazed upon his prize.

The butterfly was still alive, and looked rather calm as it sat astride his wide hand. All three hobbits stopped and stared, transfixed despite how common the sight was. But not this time; this time it meant something. Sméagol cocked his head and slowly began to smile, showing both his old pointy teeth and brand new flat ones.

Then the small life leaped away, catching the wind with its wide wings and ascending upwards in complex darts. Frodo looked at Sméagol strangely for a moment, and noticed a wetness forming in his eyes, but it was not that of sadness.

"I caught one…." Sméagol breathed out swiftly in a mock laugh. "I…caught one. And I freed one. He can go home now." He blinked, causing the wetness to roll down his cheeks in small tears.

"You sure did, Sméagol," Frodo said, eyes wet, understanding now. He looked at Sam, whose face was full of comprehension.

They turned back to their mission, the wind whipping at their assorted hair. With his free hand, Frodo unknowingly stroked the Ring. And, also unknowing, Sméagol looked down as he did so. Hair flying in front of his softened and saddened blue eyes, he understood now what was to become of his master.

And then he looked forward, mind troubled with worry.

"It will take him…" he thought, gazing towards the mountains of Mordor.

"But I won't let it. Not like me… whatever it takes…."

So the three continued, Sam on the left, Frodo on the right, with a healing Sméagol holding on to life in the center.

And so forth was the healing of Sméagol, and the redemption of an innocent soul. One could say that his healing never truly ended, for a hurt body never rests, and a tortured soul never stops seeking what it truly needs.

Comfort.


End file.
